Wind rattles the worn shutters,
The sound bothers him.
Snow speckles the grass
Just like the weather man said,
A picture of his brother before his tour in Vietnam
On the desk beside the bed,
Annoyed, he leaves the radio on and heads outside
He has work to do.
Crooked arthritic gait, grass stiff under feet
Mixed with half glossed mud,
A half a mile from the paved street.
A humbling chill
Fifteen miles per hour
From the west,
Turns his face red,
Breathing in burns his chest,
Sets his face downward,
Like the day he prayed
In the chair beside her bed,
At the conclusion of her mortality.
Different now, indeterminable to know when,
Gradual as the rot of his barn,
A realization as he bears the work
With the flannel shirt, wool lined jacket
And worn leather gloves,
many winters as such, many winters…
——-yet the wind.
When did life lose its warmth?