90

      Wind runs across the prairie,

      swirling snowflakes and brittle grass.

      I push through the icy gale,

      force open the barn door.

      Only one bale of hay is still intact.

      I squat to lift it,

      hardly seeing where I’m going,

      and make it to the soddy more by memory

      than sight.

      My sore ankle complains.

      Back in the barn,

      I kneel in the scattered hay,

      scooping armfuls into my dress,

      and press the hem against my waist.

      Outside again,

      the blinding white whips at my eyes.

      I bend my head for some protection.

      Snow gathers at the soddy door.

      I shove it open with a shoulder,

      dump the hay,

      and turn toward the barn

      again and again,

      until what hasn’t blown away

      is scattered

      across the puncheon floor.

      Once,

      after weeks of rain,

      Pa had Hiram and me

      twist hay

      into bundles for burning.

      Now I sit in almost-darkness,

      binding hay in logs

      that won’t flame out,

      as just a handful would.

      Stepping over

      piles of hay bundles,

      bits of loose grass,

      I reach into the barrel

      for the last apple.