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The old man at the top of the mountain
tended the meadows here at the bottom
with his tractor.

He graded the road that winds up to
his house, too.

Mowing, making the road smooth again, are
better than sleep to him, he says.

Peaceful.

We thought he was dead:
feeding tubes, months in the hospital,
but he surprised us, maybe even himself,
and he's back.

It was his mountain, he bought it
all and sold the pieces over the years,
to family mostly, he tells me over coffee
this morning when I come knocking
uninvited with my walking stick
and questions.

Hawaii, he says, that's where
he'd like to go when he gets
his strength back.

If this was poker, I believe I'd
have all his chips.

He isn't sure what's next,
or what he thinks about God,
or if he knows, he won't say.

Roger, not yet fifty, cranks
the tractor, hitches the blade
for grading and moves down the
steep incline of the road.

It's Spring, and no time for dying.

Those islands, he says,
were like paradise.

He won't look at me now,
but stares out the bay window,
off the mountain that was his,
farther on, searching,
his eyes glazing with something.

I want to go back, he says.