by Ian Gualtiere ’27 on April 16, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
Colors of autumn close in;
the farm is the remainder of summer.
Holding on to the final moments of green that once were,
maple leaves soon turn against us;
they begin to leave their red friends for the Earth.
Paint peels from the house, bleached by the once daily heat.
It will need to be painted blue again come spring.
I tried my best to help in your garden, harvesting the last of the crop.
But some animal in the night already helped me do it,
not much to take in today.
I must fix the fence by the stream,
or more of his friends will be returning.
The cows and sheep crave frost, some roll in the morning shine.
Coming back to the stalls with a certain whiteness on them as they greet their mates.
Joyful reunions and stories are spoken between them at dawn.
I have taken a liking to a little gray bunny that greets me at the bottom of the steps at noon,
hiding in the rotten brown leaves.
He doesn’t bother anything, maybe a vegetable or two.
This year’s litter of pigs turned out healthy as you helped with the birth,
not a single runt, but one with black dots on its coat;
shivering as the sun leaves us earlier.
An orange fox blends into the landscape as he comes around in the evening.
Looking for endless prey to store before the bleakness.
His paws get muddier as the rain doesn’t cease,
still he needs something to eat.
Looking back to our summer spent on the sand,
where the only thing that moved was the time.
I only had you for so little,
taking in every breath as a moment of stillness in the sun.
I return to our room and find the white seashells in your dresser to place around the house—
clams and mussels on windowsills and doorways;
cockles on the quilts and yarn.
There are moments where the only thing I know is that you will come home;
nothing else crosses my mind.
Birds will fly, and squirrels will sleep soon.
The evening breeze will soon turn into a daytime wind,
one that will bring snow.
But I must not stop,
the farm needs to be ready for when you come home.
So the land continues;
the black will soon consume all that lives.
The only thing I can do now is see to it, and then return to the warmth of the house by sunset.
Where the cats and dogs welcome me to our family daily,
where books will be read and music will be heard.
Where we will wait in silence for your return.