Work by Jane Kenyon

It has been light since four. In June
the birds find plenty to remark upon
at that hour. Pickup trucks, three men
to a cab, rush past burgeoning hay
and corn to summer constructions
up in town.
                   Here, soon, the mowing, raking
and baling will begin. And I must tell
how, before the funeral all those years ago,
we lay down briefly on your grandparents'
bed, and that when you stood to put on
your jacket the change slipped
from your pants pocket.

Some dropped on the chenille
spread, and some hit the threadbare rug,
and one coin rolled onto the wide pine
floorboard under the dresser, hit
the molding, teetered and fell silent
like the rest. And oh, your sigh--
the sigh you sighed then….