Mealtimes are reminders, says Tom,
of a beautiful marriage
between the organic and the mineral.

Aloof, Tom planted the Garden.
Peas spring up there, he ordered;
tiny green arcs cracked the soil.

Tom peers from his tent.
The enemy is barely visible.

The German fellow comes when I least suspect him. He appears hanging around. He walks down my chimney, settles on a footstool, talks about the weather.

In the hollow provided he beaches his canoe, fastens it to a willow, then walks into the village. He finds there a classmate from his old alma mater, goes out drinking, comes back late.

I turn to enter, turning from those frozen
Sunfields, when I see the rage of flakes,
Diminished into shaves of gold, and streaming