I Come to the Garden Alone

He walked the hill
to the fence, fell
as he reached with pliers
to mend the break.

The deer had done this,
voracious, and his garden
done this, to him, and
his obsession to fix, to do,
had done this, too.

And now this, a single, slick stone
underfoot: simple,
unlucky, and no surprise
to anyone but him; still,
he needed no one, needed only
to be himself, alone, where he could deny
the years, believe against
the mounting evidence of the body.

There were already leaves,
the crescent yellow cherry leaves,
falling, burying him as if
he wished them to . . . , to do this.
He could have lain long.

Chance grows less lenient
with years, he knows, and so
allows them all, even the doc
room to pronounce and cherish
cause and effect, to preach and console,
while he plans another
ascent to the garden, another
raid on the inevitable, that last butternut
squash, that last glimpse of nurture, that last breath
of what takes him where he needs to go.