Rain last night, leaves
wet and soggy, soaking through my thick gloves
and boots. No one has cleared this spot out
for years.
Lent used to be over by this hour
finished after the Three Hour noontime service. Now
everyone works, we mark Black Friday in the evening---the long shadow
of penitence extended.

Last night on the phone your voice was strong
but the news not good: p.s.a. test,
brain scan, hormone treatments . . .

A few hours remaining. I dig my rake
more fiercely into the black gunk
and yellow dogshit, uncover snails
and fat worms, acid green shoots,
peel up leaves in sodden sheets,
down to where they are turning back away
from being leaves, back
into something thick
ripe, primitive.

I don't care if for centuries, anyone
was lucky to live past fifty. We
are now, this is our life.