The barn door yawns slowly,
the rusted hinge loosening a soft moan
at the touch of the breeze
meandering off the orchard slopes.
Beyond the frozen ruins of the garden,
deer for a moment cease their hopes
of winter wheat and cock eyes and ears
toward the snoring barn.
Firewood hides beneath the snow
and my back cocks once, quickly,
as I gaze upon the axe.
Blessings huddle beneath the wood shed,
one dry cord.
Standing still again, I close my eyes.
The creek gurgles its way across the farm.
The barn door shifts in dreams.
Latching the door, I turn to predawn hills.
Row after white blanketed row
the apple trees wait, freshly pruned.
Like Arlington they stretch beyond sight, wonder.
Like the little ones snuggled close inside,
I close my eyes again and see blooms
I fill my arms and turn from orchard to orchard.