Two Christmases ago, Morning cold hovers in electrons. Frost covers the Chevrolet Backed by whiteness Under zero degree sunlight The old farm place sees morning Bright and calm....
The ancient barn, **** frosted roof agleam, Stands downhill to the north, Below a curving tractor trail Cut in the snow...
At the other end of those tracks, Eighty-one and counting, You are crawling down the tractor steps, Pulling battered buckets from the ancient fodder shack, Hobbling to the cattle troughs... Doing what you love to do... Have done for fifty years....
I am taking pictures at the house, Amazed at the cold and frost; An onlooker now, Somehow aware that I can not Follow you...or won't, Wistful still for attentions you always freely gave To kine instead of kin.
Could I go back, Would I go down To trough the feed? I tell myself I would, Or I would not.
The image burns coldly, Electrically before me, And only vaguely I'm aware That you have slipped away.