Cane straight at eighty. <br />Years yet to dig <br />your careful bean rows. <br />To plant seed <br />in rich, dark earth, <br />and stand spade-sharp at twilight <br />planning danders with cronies <br />to the well on Betsy's Road. <br /> <br />McGreevey died pushing seventy eight. <br /> <br />Times change. <br /> <br />No daily shave, <br />the dog unwalked. <br />Garden harvests came and went. <br />You spent it staring <br />into comfortless coals <br />complaining of a chill <br />in bones too old to till. <br />Unwilling. <br /> <br />Weeds shouldered through <br />the last bean rows <br />of your rare earth.<br /><br />James Mills<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rare-earth/
