One more reason to postpone town—
my list of necessities buried in a yellow tablet
of half-poems, songs you want to learn to play
on your father’s Martin—we are almost
self-sufficient with the garden, fresh limes
for our evening Tanqueray watching cows
come into water before grazing up hillsides.
Some waddle now, heavy with calf. Summer
seems to want to leave early on gusts,
shadows longer on the cusp of change
we mustn’t miss—another day of details
to keep us closer to the home we’ve made.