Lupines

Lupines

Some of the fence has rotted
but still holds small creatures, mice
and wrens, though not my boy's weight, nor
his father's. Winter weighed
snow on our old rails again
and again until they split.
Before long the posts must come
down. The goat herd is moving
to where the tender shoots grow.
One ram follows my hemline
as it breezes through the breaking
gate, in, out; watches, then returns
to graze in festive pasture.

At dark we cannot see
the herd, only hear their bells
as clang breaks through the chilled air.
We sit in the simmer
over supper figuring
the way to make the repair.
The kitchen light hums across
our silver and he tells me
these meals make him strong. He feeds
the dogs table scraps. They lie
away from the issue. Bells
fill the silence between lines.

Below the barn the dirt road
has been graded. The noon sun
wakes the warm winds, raises dust
toward the house. He is walking
the overgrown logging road
up to the pine stand beyond
the field and singing the pitch
of the chain saw ragging wild.
Belief becomes the pasture
sprawling down to the graded
highway. I am cutting
lupines for the table.

Linda Hogan