Retirement Time Is the Time to Retire

About twilight, swallows stitched
the air, whine of insects almost too
high pitched to hear, cornfields breathed
moisture into an Iowa sky where
thunderheads caught the last rays
of sunset. He balanced on the hind legs
of an old chair he kept by the garden
for thinking and resting. Tonight the
slaughter of weeds around the tomatoes 
gave him more sweat than comfort.
He lay back to squint at the first star
and tell himself to shape up, other men
had plowed their last furrow, left the field
and closed the gate. But he felt pushed aside,
worn out, not needed by love and labor.
Once he had joked about this day when
it lay far ahead in some misty future.
Suddenly it faced him, here, now.
He bent over to tie his shoe and the words
of an old farmer came to his mind:
The time to plant corn is at
cornplanting time.