Day 331

He was a farmer, he had an orchard.
He grew figs, he grew plums and apricots.
He had chickens.  He had goats.  Every morning
he stepped out of his house, scattered seed
for the chickens, put scraps from his family’s meals
into troughs for the goats.  Other food as well.
The goats followed him through the orchard.
They knew him, they rubbed their long noses
against his hands.  He loved the softness
of their eyes.  He named them,  he named
the chickens.  There was sun.  There was water.
The figs ripened, the plums and apricots.
His children played with the goats.  They held
the chickens.  The smallest one buried her face
in their feathers.  He sold the figs.  He sold
the plums, the apricots, the eggs.  He made cheese
from the goats’ milk, tended their kids.
It’s all gone now, even the children, even the goat
who followed him, once, into the house
and he laughed, he held the goat’s head
in his hands, looked into her eyes.  It’s all gone,
even the fruit, even the smallest child
and the feathers.  Only the man survives
and looks at the charred trees, the ruined soil
he had touched with his hands every day
for years.  Nothing remains but a few scattered seeds.
He makes some shallow holes with his fingers,
covers the seeds, wonders how anything living
could ever return to this place.  He thinks for a moment
he hears his children’s laughter, but it’s only
the cries of birds who pass overhead,
and the man stands, watches, 
leaves the rest of the seeds 
uncovered for them to eat.