JASPER

He greets me at his door as if we
have known each other for years.
I phoned prior to coming.
All I know is what Teresa
told me this morning: his wife died
last year; he's had a rough go of it.
He has coffee ready to pour.

We chat about the dry spell,
the not-much-chance of rain.
He says he's spent the morning
freezing corn, fifteen pints so far.
He is pleased, but tells me
last year was better even though
then he was still taking care of Sara.

It is his way of bringing her
into the conversation where
she stays for the next thirty
minutes. By that time I feel
I have known her for years.