We hoe and harvest 
hurried by the rain 
promised for tomorrow. 
My son dresses furrows  
with our goats’ gift 
of manure 
places popcorn seed 
into its womb 
so the treat 
that will lighten 
winter evenings 
can sprout to life. 
I pick the last currants 
bid tschüss 
to the tart red berries 
from bushes that branch 
under Kentucky’s sun 
but are rooted 
in Swabian soil. 
This June’s ruby gems 
already bejewel Torten 
rote Grütze 
and morning oatmeal. 
These holy moments cinch 
the loop of our story –  
I warmed him from his beginning 
he will tend me till my end.