Work

WORK / Jane Kenyon It has been light since four. In June the birds find plenty to remark upon at that hour. Pickup trucks, three men to a cab, rush past burgeoning hay and corn to summer constructions up in town. Here, soon, the mowing, raking, and baling will begin. And I will tell how, before the funeral all those years ago, we lay down briefly on your grandparents' bed, and that when you stood to put on your jacket the change slipped from your pants pocket. Some dropped on the chenille spread, and some hit the tread-bare rug, and one coin rolled onto the wide pine floorboard under the dresser, hit the molding, teetered and fell silent like the rest. And oh, your sigh— the sigh you sighed then. . . . m© ^ Í7 % C/^o/vaxjífc: 'WEUiTEtL YouR COTERIE To EITHER ORPEK So*etiJia>6 oR 6ET -rHS MELL out·" The Missouri Review · 57 ...