When my hair was still auburn,
I picked oranges from our tree on Downey Way
in Sacramento. You played giraffe,
circled the tree with your orange picker.
And we went on living together in the valley;
two friends held in the blessing of trust.
You seldom angered, kept a peaceful countenance.
Written to by a past lover, I never replied.
At forty-four, I dreamt of our earthen plots,
your head resting next to mine.
Why should I look elsewhere?
Barely forty-five, you were sent military orders
and you traveled far into the country of burning buildings.
You have now been gone a year.
Two mourning doves coo near our potting shed.
You fumbled with your buttons before you left.
Weeds by the front gate choke our flower bed,
too many to pull by hand. Autumn’s
leaves fall early this year. The Monarchs
already at the Monterey Coast, some
as far as Mexico. I grow melancholy.
When you return, please write me beforehand
and I’ll rush to the Delta to meet you,
down by Lee’s rice fields where we first met.