Wintering still

Cold, brittle earthen slumber

Farmers in their wives’ kitchens, linger

Thick wasted, sturdy women with chapped cheeks

Their good humored children grow fatter indoors

Nights by firelight with stories to imagine, and garments to mend

Contemporary ways poorly compare to any of our ancestors’ honest works


Wintering, again

Colorless, gray skies

Children cold against their mother’s skin

Father’s sad fury at impotence against the hard land

No relief in simple pleasures, no coal in the hearth, or bread

Darkness envelopes the world with long nights

Extravagant, the modern world’s endless electric boredom


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