I opened the crisper drawer to find four
lonely limes turning into blackened rocks.
What hopes I had for them weeks ago—
gin and tonics on the deck, you and me
looking at the marsh, talking endlessly
about how it changes with the light,
the weather, the seasons, the clouds, even
the blackbirds, and how it seemed closer this year,
(like Birnam wood heading for Dunsinane),
and how we never tire of its life
even when we’re sicklied o’r with our own
pale thoughts cast adrift now, like the snow
coming on, piling up in the cattails,
minding only the winter of the marsh.