On the farm

Winter

rides a bitter wind

into all the fields,

stiffening soil and stubble.

It silvers the pump handle,

burns our hands,

whistles into cold crevices

and out of hot kettles.

Gray dawns miser out

pinches

of pink and gold,

the smells of smoky oak beams

and the warm steam of

stalled cattle.

We relish hot thick soups -

beans and potatoes from our earth -

and we try our tongues on glittering icicles

tasting of ancient glaciers.

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