Cancer, when the doctors tell me cancer
like loneliness in old age, its enfeeblement,
like the violence done on any darkened street
when the motor fails, like
nuclear war, when it comes,
will not be unexpected
Unlike this slant of light
through late March woods
across these bare but undead bending branches
glowing maroon and violet-grey and bittersweet
Which is unlooked-for kindness
that takes me back
to fields, to days like these
when I hunted with my dad
when snow hung in the clouds
and no leaves on their stems
Somewhere far between exits
in a clearing barely cleared
from woods caught between the highway
and land readied for corn
a field with its makeshift goals
draws my attention like a crowd
And the air goes supper heavy
raked leaves burn at the ends of drives
and duffled grass
feels soft as sleep
as I dive for a pass
My forty years have leapt
with this light that leaps
fifty more could bring nothing
comforting as this sunshine spiraling down
an easy catch for eager hands