It’s blinding, the kind of pain that comes with the rains,
up here, this time of year, lots of work for him and me,
hauling fallen branches and uprooted banana trees, taking turns
hacking away at and bagging all this damage done in paradise.
By myself, I’m left alone to clean up the remains now,
the rain, on my head, in my eyes, often still streaming,
but the job must be done, although hard with only me down here below.
And while I scurry to clean up the debris, I survey the surging weeds,
more yard work that needs repeating, again and again,
like some Zen exercise, me raking away at that old sand –
more and more I wish he were here to help in these storms, the other
garden chores I can still muddle through myself, raking away, the seasons,
unique as each brings to my aging its own type of labor.
But in these rainy seasons, with the pain, I miss him most, every time.