Where We Live

We stole time to walk together
for the mail—no such thing
as spare time on a farm.
We sauntered between cornfields
and pretended they were parks,
the spring sun blazing in a blue bowl.

One half mile to the mailbox
and back in a season, at noon,
of pain and struggle for birth.
The mailbox carries our name
to show where we live, but holds
no news why a calf when born
staggers to its feet and begins
to suck its mother’s teat, nor why
a duck sits on her eggs until
they hatch. The mailbox contains
news of the world, words from friends,
debts we have paid. We walk
together in the spring sunshine,
our empty hands speak for unfinished
chores and labor.

The miracle of life! The seed
we planted with care, with hope,
may testify. As we walk
soft explosions of desire burst
in field, in beast, in ourselves.