A Pair of Boots

The mist has not yet finished crawling
around the plot of dirt that is my grandparents’ farm,
the one I hear I will inherit when in the end
the broken ground will part to claim
what rightfully belongs to dust.

At the doorstep, where the kitchen meets soil
beaded in rough clumps from last night’s storm,
a shivering refrain in the dead of summer,
I pick up grandfather’s boots, black rubber
and deep treads like all-weather tires
so he can stand tall in the mud
among rows of tomatoes, onions, and beans.

It’s my turn this morning to pull water from the well,
and I can see even the bucket gives off
tongues of fog from its open mouth.

I slide my bare feet into the cool shaft one at a time,
know the boots are too big for my size nine,
but shuffle slowly to the well, tread the same
worn ground he beats from sunrise ’til the edge of night
keeps watch on his retreating steps.

The bucket disappears in the dark, and when the rope
has gone as far as it could go, I hear the wood
break silence with a slap, drink black water
and fill its throat until it drowns.