Homestead

Homestead

 

Spring

 

The house snug in pasture, manure and wheat.

We�"a family with the dog with mud in her ears�"

were one in that gilded-tide, slosh-in-the-wind sea.

Each of us wanted winter.

 

Summer

 

The fires were for wheat, for the stubble

Hacked and sawed and left, a harrowed reminder,

A fixture for a while of life without the sea.

And we held out hope for spring.

 

Autumn

 

The ocean waves were green

Around the house. And cows’ low

Called us out to a scent of fresh

Growing wheat. Summer felt close.

 

Winter

 

Each of us wanted

Something. But not the house.

Not the fallow pasture. And not the sound

of snow falling on dying wheat.