This day is all but over and the cold

Is terrible, penetrating the soles of my boots,

My layers of shirt and coat, I am miserable,

Everything hurts. I only want to finish

And go home, but I am not done.

Cannot these animals jolly-well find something

To eat without me catering to them? Alas, 

It doesn’t work that way. The pasture is frosted 

And the ponds are frozen, they need hay 

And someone has to cut the ice. 

I go home, add layers, come back, finish,

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

In this wind, requires a head down attitude.

I look up and see the rolling hills, the horizon, 

A line of bare trees on the crest of a ridge

Backlit by the last violet and pink light of day.

Now that I am warm, with more layers 

And warmer boots, and the animals are fed,

I stop to admire this wintry scene,

And feel cozy and content within my layers.

I walk over to the corral and whistle 

For the horses, though only Sam comes.

I take off my gloves to pat his nose 

And feel the warm muzzle and the warm 

Exhalations as we commune for a few minutes.

Then I let him go, say tará and walk home

In the dark. It’s a quarter mile on the county 

Road, another quarter on the lane, and strangely

I wish it were longer. I am no longer miserable.

Somehow this day passed and the cold

Which seemed so, I don’t know . . . deadly,

Seems benign. I’m feeling very philosophical

About this, this harmony with the animals

And the sunset and the horses and the road.

Some sort of epiphany is lurking, but I’m not 

Clever enough to see it, so I walk on, and the words 

“no direction home” come to mind. Meaningless 

Bob Dylan words. I think of Whitman and his 

Metaphorical Big Steps, and I think of the deer 

In the yard with their prancy Little Steps, 

And these Big Boot Steps I’m making, and maybe 

It’s all about finding direction, about going home, 

Home being the destination. But that isn’t

Much of an epiphany. I walk. I feel an unease. 

Something isn’t right. Something amorphous 

Is coalescing. Something about the center, 

How a family needs a center, something 

For the children to circle round, and how the center 

Shifts or goes away at times, now being one 

Of those times because some of us are adrift.

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

We must not drift into two, but remain one.

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

I’m almost home. The lights are on.

I stomp my boots to shake loose the gravel, 

I take off my gloves and unbutton my coat 

To feel the cold before I go inside. It feels good, 

It feels pleasant, comfortable. I have found it, 

And now I must be it. No direction home.

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