It seems it shouldn't feel so hard, this sitting down
for a minute to type a few words, or
knowing where to begin, choosing between
describing the small puffed clouds of her sleeves,
the campfire ash and marshmallow
contentment of her face,
or the way her older sister's bare feet
curled around the warm belly of her pony,
sideways spring sunlight holding her.
Knowing where to start
is where I falter.
But the light this morning is perfect, fat robins
perched on every fencepost, the invisible trill
of sandhill cranes overhead. We work ourselves into
a rhythm even when we feel the most scattered.
Mike has eased into spring work, spending seven days
a week in the fields, with a kind of grace I could never have.
But I've learned to blend most of the farmchores into my days
driving the old blue truck out, followed by a trail of hungry mama cows,
setting the stick shift to the slowest gear, holding the steering wheel
at a straight course, then jumping from the cab to climb
aboard the moving trailer, to balance while we roll across the field,
forking hay to my hungry friends. I'm becoming more graceful
with this whole process, and it feels something like a parade,
my pose altogether different than a beauty queen waving
from a convertible. My legs wide for balance, pitchfork wielding
last year's grass, baler twine hanging from my back pocket,
my mind and body in the same place at the same time,
and maybe starting again
isn't so hard after all.