North Wind, September 7, 1995

North Wind,

September 7, 1995

The freight whistle sounds, clatters

over the periphery

of hearing,

other side of the blocks

of wooden houses

set against the prairie wind.

The cold revives

last winter's fires,

our woodstove

popping, crackling,

warm smell of baking---

wheat, rye, corn,

grasses,

The soil bringing out of itself

life, swaying on thin stalks to carry us

through winter,

your hands molding,

fingers pressing in

to shape the warmth

that pushes from the inside

out,

swells to fill our house,

fill us,

as stiff branch tips

brush over clapboards,

And the night, drawing deeply

on the pipe

of our stove,

huddles over the house where we

break bread.