I've been sick.

You know those hours when you barely move

except from the sofa to the bathroom.

The rest of the time

you try to blanket to the chin,

bear the weight of the day,

and suffer the internal wind

across your bones. 

The farmer has been

a godsend.

The first night,

slayed,

 the grandfather chimes 

 gaged the hours 

  as I sipped chipped ice

pulled from ale

made with real ginger. 

The next day

the farmer left me as I have asked him

 as a precursor.

I am seldom sick,

but when the time comes 

I do not like others hovering around.

I'd rather steal away in mind

without intervention,

without motion,

without concern. 

Yesterday,  in the silence

of  a red sky,

I watched the fog roll

off the tin roof for nearly

an hour  in an early morning opening.

I spent the day cold

sipping more ginger.

Delighted with the accomplishment.

The dawn of day 2,

the farmer brought me

a soft wheat pancake

with a drip of sourwood.

"Eat,"

he said.

"At least try."

Before he left for the field,

I heard him in the kitchen

stirring in his favorite pot.

Later, while pulling on his boots,

he said,

"There's soup when you're ready."

As the day passed and from

the bathroom window,

I watched where he spent most

of the morning dragging sand

from the creek to the floor of

his green-house in resurrection.

A yellow bandanna covered

his mouth, and he wore his

Aussie hat  squarely

upon his head.

His big boots moved gears,

and many times he stopped

to dismount and adjust the

dragging bar.

When the farmer approached the house,

just nigh an hour ago,

he stopped at the stoop

to hang accoutrements

on the black iron hook. 

He removed his boots,

and shook the sand

out into the drive. 

Beneath his arm

he carried a 12-pack

of Canada Dry.

"Feeling any better?"

he asked as he 

moved across the room.

 Scupper © 1/2010