The reunion

I am scattered, so scattered.

Weeks on end of this after that

and not enough stillness.

The family crowd too

hums in many directions:

On the porch inside screens behind me

three clusters, two at each end

of the farm table after dinner,

one discussing roofs and the other

competing at Rummikub.

Then those on the couches lounging with feet up

looking like they’d rather sleep than converse.

Another set of talking heads

on the deck too distant

for me to surveil, but it seems serious.

And in the water at the bottom of the hill

the children akimbo in equal parts splash and squeal.

The baby and I alone in the hammock

swaying under glowing oak leaves,

singing our farm song with motions,

he mimicking with his arms

“feed the chickens”

“pick the apples”

“hoe potatoes”

“milk the cows”

etcetera

then the oak leaves

mimicking us

and then nothing

as we rest from our labors

gathering in our arms

the fruits of familial solitude.