Running Past a Forlorn Farm
The windbreak holds the snow
In the arms of its boughs
Like a nurse holding up a sheet
To give her dying patient
Some privacy as he undresses
But I see through them
To the curtains she has drawn
(the only art she still practices)
So she can sleep away
These long afternoon hours
And maybe dream of summer
And though he has put them away
For winter I figure the tractors
In the shed are down on all fours
Staring into mirrors of drained oil
And despite the swing set’s
Best efforts to appear stable
Now that she no longer comes outside
I know the swings are longing
For the snow to drift and lift them
Just a little so they can
Let their chains go slack
Like waitresses stepping out
Of their shoes behind the counter
Maybe the best way to put it is that
No matter how many flakes fall
Through the netless hoop tonight
In lieu of the ball
Lying deflated in the snow
Myriads more will miss