Winter grips the farm
with an iron hand, ruptures
foundation, freezes water pipes,
seals furrows in ice. The yard
paved with frost rustles with drifts
of straw, paper, husks,
gathered and spread by the wind.
We have the endurance for survival,
we read in the plowed expression
of fields, harvests to come,
pastures alive with calves,
the shouting strength of tractors,
tips of green pushing, pushing
into the light. And we, with the sun
on our backs, follow our footsteps
of years past, indifferent to eyes
from the road staring at us
as they pass, our steady gaze
aloof from passersby who have no stake
in the furrows we turn.
