Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones
...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden
One of my early memories. I was three. Between my first and second year, memory begins for me-- mostly impressions and strong symbols that seem to float without time.
My grandparents were gone, but my Uncle Ray still worked their small farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts, and we would drive up from the city on Sunday afternoons. The house itself, was one of the oldest in New England, with the barn attached by a distinctive enclosure, to allow easy access to the animals in heavy snow, like the house described in Ethan Frome.