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”
“milk the cows”
then the oak leaves
and then nothing
as we rest from our labors
gathering in our arms
the fruits of familial solitude.