The Visitor

We are old and we stand
at the gate of our farm
on land dusty with bones
ground from our youth
to fertilize the fields
and grow the corn and wheat,
each sheaf a memory
of summer's careless warmth
and honeysuckle light,
before old age came and
took harvest of our hearts.
Now our faces are creased
like fallen autumn leaves,
and our love is barren
like naked winter trees.
Our eyes are old
and unsurprised
by anyone we see
at the door of our house,
even death.