Learning to ride, falling down, getting back on
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Harry in the garden:
my herculean husband,
my scarlet-sweatered cardinal,
my cranberry cocktail,
I celebrate your progress
on our mid-November lawn.
The red oak fades to brown
and crumbles round your shoulders
like a coat of paper armor.
You wait in place, eyeing the winter sky,
plastic bag in one hand,
rake like a saber in the other.
Oh, beloved believer in order,
faithful as moon and sun,
persistent as lengthening grass —
your gift to me: absolute certainty
that for as long as leaves shall fall
you will be there to catch them.