Spring On The Farm

The mixed emotions which I hold this spring
Grow from the farm’s offense
Of tracking muddy footprints where the inward eye
Supposes dreams but finds that common sense

Will be more use to me out in the slush,
The wet March cold,
Where I hang my breathy wreaths of flowering sweat,
Trying to get the mare inside before her colt is foaled.

I know the sap is running, the maple trunks
Shine black as mud
Where I am spreading straw to give her footing
And get her to the barn, like all flesh and blood.

I’m a fool in some ways, but I know that spring
Comes down to this:
For me, O Lord, the chores, always the chores of birth,
Calves, pigs and colts, with kittens on their own
And chickens in my lap as frost heaves from the earth
And skies drip down, and patience and pain are sisters.
I gawk in relief at a rippling wedge of geese—
The farm isn’t always like this but today it is.