"Hades as Farmhand" by

1.I first saw her when I was sixteen,while threshing wheat on the farm.How her eyes turned to stone at the voice of her motherand her feet stopped the porch like thunder.The turning of her rosebud skirt,but she was only seven.Every year I'd return with the rotating sunand watch how the girl took shape.Each gesture she made done quick, without wastewhether turning flapjacks or slamming the door.The house was a white trellis to climband the mother a pot grown small.When the threshing was finished, I'd help with the cornunder the biting eye of both mother and sun.Each row a reason to stay a bit longer,a means to consider how to wait.The anger in one resistance,in the other -- a door.2.For hours, I dug my truck out of mudmy lower half caked in earth.Three miles from the Nelson placeI saw her walking down the road,dark hair unthreaded to the wind,her shoulders hunched like hills.I slowed the truck, cracked the window slightly,first words always awkward in the mouth."It seems we're headed in the same direction,get on in, but not too close, the dirt."Thanks was what she said to me.Neither of us risked another sound.3.I think this corn's grown tall enough,too high to see over or get past --Time to cut it, let it come crashing down.You're not a little girl any longer.Go to her,let her know.I've spent this year watching your wet cat bunchand the hard plow of your mouth at her nameShe's family for better or worse.You and me, we're family now too.4.What do I want butwhat I can see plainly?Keep busy. There's never a shortageof things to repair or keep up.This life is just a step ahead of dead.No waste, no worry, but kindness helps.I thank her every daywhether she hears it or not.