Middle Age

Many of my friends are alone and know too much to be happy though they still want to dive to the bottom of the green ocean and bring back a gold coin in their hand. A woman I know wakes in the late evening and talks to her late husband, the windows blank photographs. On the porch, my brother, hands in pockets, stares at the flowing stream. What’s wrong? Nothing. The cows stand in their own slow afternoons. The horses gather wild rose hips in the sun the way I longed for someone long ago. What was it like? The door opening and no one on either side.