Winter Memory
Rancid dry air forces itself through previously frigid lanes
to coat my long-ago-scarred hands that lie on
the wheel, waiting for heat to penetrate the six layers of
cloths that I need to swallow my being.
My bones ache and my muscles tense with forgotten ice,
my hands automatically smooth the rough towel blankets,
I feel the rocks, and twigs, and dirt staining my worn jeans,
the yellowed placenta cold against my thin flannel shirt.
The buck had slipped in with the ewes a few months early
and it was the coldest winter on record
There was not a clean towel in the house
and we never slept more than four hours a night
Our beds, couches, every milk crate, and laundry basket
held a cold bawling lamb, fed with powdered milk and
coffee which we drank to make it through the frozen nights
The sheep shook their solid coats, a sound of distant thunder
Their wool blended with the skiffs of snow, with the
mounds of frozen sheep, and lambs, and inedible hay
I smile, with sorrow, when winter comes
and my heart aches to return home.