FARM CYCLE

THE EDUCATION OF A CITY GIRL

Last night,

children played on

hot sidewalks under the white glow of

lamp- lined streets and

the skyline was brighter than

the moon while

the hum of traffic pointed everything to

buildings full of fluorescent light.

Tonight,

lambs linger along

creek banks under the waxing

moon and

the sky is darker than the bottom

of the pond while

the hum of front-porch talk

pauses to consider a lawn

full of flickering fireflies.

SUMMER’S END

Hay, in brown swaths

outlines the meadows

as we

mow and ted and rake and bale.

Swallows dip and dive

snatching lunch as it

rises from a dusty field.

THE BREEDING SEASON

The ram is on duty.

He follows each ewe

stretching his lips into a tight smile

to taste her ripeness

HEAT
Mornings are dew dazzled

and in the woods, we crunch

through carpets of leaves.

You say, “Firewood heats you three times.

Once in the cutting,

once in the unloading

and once in the stove.”

Branches scrape and creak

against the sky while one weathered tree

stands limbless and quiet.

You make the first cut and the wailing saw

spits chips.

Then I hear the soft crack

of splinters parting

and the tree comes crashing

down.

MIDNIGHT IN THE BARN

Steam rises.

Animals exhale-

a quiet breathing.

Sheep bleat,

cows moan, and

hay shuffles

as kine and swine

turn

shift

stretch

and recline

 in

summer’s leftover

pleasure

LAMB LaMAZE

A ewe pants and pushes

pants and

pushes

straightens legs

arches neck

push  push

bleat

one small foot

slips out

then slides back

inside

push

push

two feet and

the tip of a white nose

play hide and

seek

push

push

pause

suddenly

shoulders,

a long body,

back legs

at last a

lamb drops to the hay

and mama turns to lick it to

life.

MIDWIFE

She cannot have her lamb.

it is stuck

somewhere between

cervix and vulva,

a tunnel too narrow

for a lamb with one leg

curled back.

I reach in

and my cold hand is suddenly warm.

I hook the front leg with one finger

behind the knee

and pull,

and like a tender sprout uncurling to the sun

the leg straightens

and the lamb is free

to slide onto the hay.

TOO MANY

The old ewe,

is thin under

her wool.

Twenty-five lambs in

twelve years

pulling rich milk from

her swollen teats

have stolen her roundness.

Now, three more

steam on the

frozen ground

where she has dropped them.

The ewe knickers, and nibbles until

they rise, on wobbly legs.

Three lambs search for milk

but the ewe rejects one

pushing it away

each time it approaches

until it gives up

and drops to the ground

exhausted.

Then she turns and takes her twins

to the barn.

BOTTLE LAMBS

These lambs, pushed away by overwhelmed ewes,

or abandoned by ignorant ones,

are always hungry.

They want

to nuzzle skin

while they drink.

They want noses tucked into warm wool

while they tug and pull.

They want ewe bleats, snorts, and stomach rumbles

as they suck.

Instead they get

a green bottle

full of fake milk

to suck from a bright red

rubber nipple.

TIRED

There are six lambs in the barn

six lambs without mamas

six lambs that jump up expectantly

each time I enter.

And I am tired of mixing milk.

And I am tired of sticky hands and

the sour smell of my coat

where the lambs have sucked it.

And I am tired of pulling boots on and off.

But mostly I am tired of feeling sad about

lambs that lost their mamas

Tell me again why I love to live on a farm.

ALMOST GONE

When I find the lamb out in the field

it is almost gone.

I stick one finger in its mouth.

Ice cold is not a good sign.

I cannot leave it here,

so I wrap it in a feedsack.

This little girl lamb,

with spotted ears,

doesn’t open her eyes,

doesn’t bleat,

doesn’t kick,

is as lifeless as a loaf of bread

as I carry her to the house

where I fill a sink with warm water

and baptize her until

she struggles and her mouth

is warm.

Too weak to suck a bottle, she will have to be tube fed.

I have three choices.

 I will tube her wrong and she will die. 

I won’t tube her and she will die.

I will tube her correctly and she will live.

I feed the tube down her throat,

maybe it’s in her lungs

maybe it’s in her stomach.

Every trick I know for doing it right works,

sometimes.

Then I pour warm milk into the syringe

and pray.

She doesn’t die.

Life comes in slowly.

A moan,

a lifting of her head,

a shake of her ears.

Two hours later

I tube her again.

Then go to bed.

Morning will tell.

As the first light

brightens the sky

I hear her bleat

and go downstairs.

She is standing on shaky legs

and pissing all over my floor.

And I laugh.

MAKING LOVE IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE CHEVY

The sun licks the last

drops of frost

from the front windshield

as I bend

over

to retrieve a loose bolt

from the floorboard and

find myself caught

by the strong arm

of the gearshift.

I twist around

legs flung wide

like a bawdy girl,

and we

laugh ourselves breathless

as you

rescue

me from

the truck’s

steely embrace

SPRING

After a winter of snow

and cold,

after digging endless pathways,

after thousands of bottles of milk

after ashes inside and cats inside and mud inside,

there is some green

outside

and the peepers are singing songs

about spring.

KING OF THE HILL

The lambs

leap and kick

they buck and duck,

Who is strongest?

Who is fastest?

Who can leap the highest?

One lamb stands alone

hunched against the small breeze.

Abandoned at birth, it is always hungry

for milk and attention.

COYOTE

The lambs play

unaware

while their wooly mamas

crop grass

      three quick steps

a snatch,

a muffled bleat,

and a lamb

leaves the flock

throat-first

while its mama

wanders away

in search of

a

blade

of

grass.

LAMB CROP

The sun is shining

on fields full of lambs

and the lamb check this year will be good

if the lambs survive

the coyotes

the bears

the dogs

and the worms .

The sun is shining on fields full of lambs

and the lamb check this year will be good

unless

the lambs survive

all of that

and die anyway.

Anyone who raises sheep knows

a lamb is born looking

for a way to die.

NOTHING TO DO

We sit on the tailgate

in the sun.

There is nothing to do today.

No lambs to feed.

No hay to scatter.

No buckets to fill and carry.

There is nothing to do today.

So we sit in the sun

and watch the lambs leap and the sheep eat

and the grass grow

which reminds us

there will be something to do

tomorrow.

IN THE STORE

Chops and roasts

rosy red in the case

don’t tell.

They don’t tell about

the night we spent lying in shit

as we pulled the lamb.

They don’t tell about the lamb that lived

one day and then died in my arms.

They don’t tell that lambs love to dance under a warm spring sun.

or about four lambs curled together against the cold.

Meat wrapped in cellophane

lies about the getting.

Leads to forgetting

that one life is always

the gift of

another life

followed by death,

followed by life.

On the farm

on our table

we remember and are humbled

by the truth.