Mom’s heart burst while dad
whipped the horses
to pull sled and doctor
through deep North Dakota snow.
Heat leaves her body and outside
a defeated father leads his son from tree
to tiny tree nursed diligently
with the pails of water she’d drawn
up from the well. The trees grew tall
as did the son, he too now long ago gone.
Today, his grandson,
age 43 with his own family,
stares down at the water of the creek
then up at his own trees.
The heart’s a drum
keeping time to the rhythm
of creek water returning to the sea.
My rubber boots sink down
into muddy earth and clay
while raking up all these decaying leaves.
Today, it’s just me and these trees,
each preparing for winter in our own way.
A time and a season for everything:
no fight, no blame.