You had nightmares about the

rotting planks,

splitting—

crumbling to dust.

 

One mile of fencing—

our forever project.

 

We’d joke about it:

install,

paint,

repair—

start again.

 

“I’m like the fence we can’t fix,”

you said.

 

The pale planks are stacked

like the days—

grain pressed against grain.

 

I continue work meant for two.

 

The pine smells earthy, sweet—

measured and cut

while you watched from the window,

your hand pressed to the glass.

 

I sort through tools you bought me

to replace the cracked ones

found at a yard sale—

hammer nails sideways

so they’ll hold,

board by board.

 

The bite of metal hitting wood

echoes across the pasture,

settles into dormant wheat.

 

I complain to the fence post

about lack of sleep,

crappy coffee,

a bum knee—

the one you used to wrap

in Ace bandages.

 

I wonder if anyone will notice

the gap near the oak—

the new post leaning

 

like you did,

one arm in the grass.