Abundance
I have much to say about peeling this orange,
thumbing the segments into juice, about the dog
who will outlast me, the man who is my longest
love, summer’s true green in the oaks, birches,
and pines that rim the marsh.
It’s June and moon jellies drift in high tide —
multitudes, edged in white, the faintest outlines
of life. Horseshoe crabs, Canada geese,
and mallards mate in the channel that leads
to the sea. Spartina grasses conceal the vulnerable.
The iron-tinged well fills our machines
and the dog bowl by the backdoor. Water drips
from the showerhead we’ve yet to fix.
In the fridge, our leftovers. Even the compost
is near capacity.
There once was a place of honey and manna,
children and lovers fat with bread and fruit.
Flowers bloomed in easy rain. The sun appeared
when it was needed, as did the moon. This was
the world without end.
Anne Makeever lives in Brunswick, Maine, with her partner and an exuberant dog. She works as editor-in-chief of Curiosus, a magazine about the art and science of medicine. Read more.