Tending the gutters

Days pass without a hint
of him.
All casual thoughts
beavered away.

But now the wind wants
to clone my windows
and his face eroded
splashes into shallows
left by rain.

I didn't clean the gutters.

He recalls how pure were his gutters
by August.

Now I'm in charge
but the tools to subdue the wild
and comprehend the workings of
the world

stand in the shed without a boss,
stalwart as a redwood above the fog.

The steady ways of him reconsidered
as I climb the ladder.