Jane Penland Hoover

We watched eighteen wheels
rolling up the long curved
rise, our drive, trees we planted,
watered, arching over, now
shadows falling thick,
dense air of sighs.

What remained of our possessions
moving toward retirement,
distant from this sheltered cove,
Weeping Willows dripping leaves,
wind-brushed grass where Holsteins
grazed, unfazed and unaware
of our goodbyes, whispered
to all of them,
the lone great heron,
beavers in their den,
turtles sunning on the shore
once ours,
uncluttered now
our kayaks sold.

Hands clasped, we pressed
for comfort from the pain,
then released our grasp
to go.