Out on the orchard road

I drive past myself

mowing a lawn.

I wave

and then I wave

unsure if what’s there

amidst sun-stirred scent of clematis

is looking forward or back.

I’m at the elastic start of summer

when everything pulls down,

pulls down, tightens,

when all the eyes turn in

on their bodies

until the leaves change again.

I don’t know what’s grown out here

but it’s the East Coast, an orchard,

not a vineyard like they have

in California, so nothing exotic

like grapes or olives.

Apples no doubt, or maybe pears.

Someone I know has gone to California

and it’s always like that, isn’t it—gone to California

as opposed to went.

A lover?  Sure, call it a lover.

A woman?  Let’s not say.

Someone I love, leave it at that,

someone I love who has made

their presence known by making

these days feel full of without.