 |
| Path to the woodpile jo'b |
A cold and angry wind
passes through the country,
shaking this old farmhouse,
its posts and beams creaking,
its mortices and tenons
pushing against each other,
giving a little to keep from falling.
Late, I read the news and tend the fire
to keep my bones from chilling,
all night I let the faucet drip
to keep the pipes from bursting—
the wind is a passing thing,
passing through a passing thing,
which is my life. I am old.
I go slowly to grow older.
I pull down my cap and turn my collar up,
heading for the woodpile through the drifting snow,
each step a crunching underfoot, less of a sound
in my head than a vibration in my soul.
I lean into the wind, sometimes
turning sideways in the stronger gusts,
giving a little, still standing.
