Growing Up

It is time to leave the grove,
the warm dark secret embrace of trees,
the wigwam of horse blankets and
maple poles, the campfires where we ate
half-baked potatoes and charred sweet corn.
The years have straddled our backs
and spurred us into the open sky beyond
the forest paths we traveled
to a field alive with its sowing.
This is the temple of work marked by
the stations of sweat and callouses.
Now the dung loader and tractor’s voice
will send anniversary greetings
to our knees and shoulders, and a
mouldy saddle and rusty bit offer
proof of our fleet-footed pony.
Come out of the woods, the snakes
chuckle in the gardens, long windows
of the mind look out on auction sales
flying their pennants along the tired
main street of property.