I like it when they get together 
and talk in voices that sound 
like apple trees and grape vines,

and some of them wear hats 
and go to Arizona in the winter, 
and they all like to play cards.

They will always be the ones 
who say “It is time to go now,” 
even as we linger at the door,

or stand by the waiting cars, they 
remember someone—an uncle we 
never knew—and sigh, all

of them together, like wind 
in the oak trees behind the farm 
where they grew up—a place

I remember—especially 
the hen house and the soft 
clucking that filled the sunlit yard.