Cane straight at eighty. br Years yet to dig br your careful bean rows. br To plant seed br in rich, dark earth, br and stand spade-sharp at twilight br planning danders with cronies br to the well on Betsy's Road. br br McGreevey died pushing seventy eight. br br Times change. br br No daily shave, br the dog unwalked. br Garden harvests came and went. br You spent it staring br into comfortless coals br complaining of a chill br in bones too old to till. br Unwilling. br br Weeds shouldered through br the last bean rows br of your rare earth.