The metaphor is not lost on me

How I tramp through these days in your shoes,
learning to build fences in the early april mud.
There is something very like redemption
in the hardpan, & in the thrust
of shoulders exhuming each fistful
of reluctant dirt. Just as there are many meanings
in un-earth, & some that should stay
buried. Lying next to you at night,
I find comfort in the soft wind
of your inhale; it lessens the sadness by a spade.
There is much that I miss still, or perhaps
it is that I am still searching
for the tools to set the thing right,
to find us plumb again.

(between parentheses)

after R.S.
dear poet,

there is nothing
about this metaphor:

that we are children
reaching hands
in the hard calloused
eyes of the ferryman who
steers between the winks
of channel-markers
into gloamed twilight;
that we step
quietly on the creaking
planks of secrets and
drink in coastlines
like sweetwater;
and that we finally
follow stars hot
& hard as July earth
until each
reaches home again.

metaphor for the middle of May

although near sunset i walk
the same barefoot circles
round the same gravel despair,
morning finds me
prying last autumn’s leaf fall
from the damp spring earth,
letting the soil breathe a
chance for the emergence of
new green.