Pastoral
Inside their cottage by the pumpkin field,
the farmer listened to his wife
explain why she was out of sorts
today: her laceration hadn't healed—
the one from when the paring knife
had slipped—and several precious quarts
of milk were lost forever as she wheeled
the dairy can across the yard
and tipped it near the kitchen door.
He nodded, more concerned about the yield
of corn this year. Their life was hard
at times, and they were almost poor,
but these were stark conditions he had steeled
himself to long ago. He wiped
his brow, and then he took her hand—
the wounded one—his own a sturdy shield
protecting hers. He never griped
about the meager plot of land
on which the two, together, often kneeled.
Inside their cottage by the pumpkin field,
the farmer listened to his wife
explain why she was out of sorts
today: her laceration hadn't healed—
the one from when the paring knife
had slipped—and several precious quarts
of milk were lost forever as she wheeled
the dairy can across the yard
and tipped it near the kitchen door.
He nodded, more concerned about the yield
of corn this year. Their life was hard
at times, and they were almost poor,
but these were stark conditions he had steeled
himself to long ago. He wiped
his brow, and then he took her hand—
the wounded one—his own a sturdy shield
protecting hers. He never griped
about the meager plot of land
on which the two, together, often kneeled.