The Farmer's Bride

Dry weeds wait for snow,
trees creak, the road’s skin
turns gray, a pale sun throws
pale shadows, cold air wraps the day.
I see a bundled man in work clothes
walk across the yard, head bowed
to mark icy spots where a man
might fall, his mittened hands
hang like boards. The dog leaps
to lick his face, cats arch and
weave between his legs, the cows
moo softly at his approach, even
sparrows follow behind his back.
He does the chores before dark,
and locks the barn doors, warm in a
faith he shoulders with all he owns 
that a spring sun will sometime
break the winter’s back. I stand
and wait where a wound of light
bleeds through the window.