The ridge pastures are mantled in snow,
With bleached grass stems whiskering through.
The wooded ravines and creek bottom
Are flooded in shadow.
A soft darkness muffles the freeway noise,
Dims the pole lights,
Turning eyes and ears to the land.
Was it just an echo from the barnyard bell
Or is there song on the wind?
Did the orange light spilling from the kitchen window
Out over the shorn garden and slushy paddock
Catch on icicles, an old bottle, shiny harness nails?
Or, from the stalls, is there a new brightness?
Do we expect miracles?
No matter.
There is room.

Merry Christmas
Shady Grove Farm