This day is all but over. The cold is terrible, 

Penetrating the soles of my boots, my layers 

Of shirt and vest and coat. I am miserable.

I ache, everything hurts, I only want to finish

Choring and go home—no, not yet. 

Why can’t these silly cows find something to eat

Without me catering to them? Alas, 

It does not work that way. The pasture is frosted 

And the ponds are frozen. They need hay 

And someone has to cut the ice. It’s too cold.

I find my insulated overalls, finish chores,

And when I do, I chance to look up, for this work,

In this wind, requires a head-down attitude.

I look up to see the rolling hills, a line of bare trees 

On the crest of a ridge, I see the horizon

Backlit by the violet and pink light of dusk.

Now that I am warm, and now that

The animals are fed, I stop to admire this—

The end of the day, this last light. I am

Content within my layers, contained, at peace.

I sidle? amble? over to the corral and whistle 

For the horses, though only Sam comes.

I take off my gloves, pat his nose, feel 

The warm muzzle and the warm exhalations.

We talk about events of the day, the weather.

We commune, then I let him go with a pat

On his rump. It’s dark. I head for home, 

Walking down the graveled, county road, 

Down our lane, and, strangely, I wish it were longer. 

I am no longer miserable. The day passed, 

And the cold, which seemed so gripping,

So deadly, now seems benign. 

I’m feeling philosophical about this—

This harmony with the cattle and the sunset 

And Sam and the road. An epiphany is lurking.

I’m not clever enough to see it. I walk on.

The words no direction home come to mind,

Bob Dylan words I’ve heard a thousand times.

I think of Whitman and his metaphorical big steps.

I think of the deer I so often see and their tiny

little steps, and these booted steps I’m taking.

Maybe it’s all about finding direction, 

About going home, home being the destination. 

But that isn’t much of an epiphany. I walk on. 

I feel the darkness, an unease. Something isn’t right. 

Something ominous is coalescing, something

About the center. A family needs a center, 

Something for the children to circle around—

But the center shifts. Is this one of those times?

Not all is well. Some of us are adrift.

The center for this family must be us, the parents. 

We must not drift into two, must remain one.

The kids need it, she needs it, I need it. 

I’m almost home. The porch light is on.

Outside the door I stomp the gravel off my boots.

I take off my gloves, unbutton my coat to feel the cold.

There is nothing threatening about it.

Through bare tree limbs I see stars. I have found it.

Now I must be it. No direction home?

Nonsense. I am home. I open the door. I go in.