I fix my eye squarely on the plain
before me, made as winter may, abrupt:
the red granite outcrop, the black arms
of the blue spruce, the crumbling hips
of the icebound creek, all now distinct,
rawboned in a way that makes all hope
despair of the haybales and silos, the girded
fields, posts and wire, the several
loose tires and the boots that mark the wild
asparagus stands — those things, gaunt
as they are in the absence of grain.
Image: Jean-Daniel Calame on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 