Tracks through the heavy snow I tread
as I make my way home to bed,
the runners on my laden wain
digging in the drifts on the lane.
–
The long day’s work is done at last
and I hope for my soon repast,
as the sun dips low, casting light,
my weary bones ask for the night.
–
But best of all, she waits for me,
wife of my youth, now elderly,
as I am too, of course, wrinkled
like parchment by someone crinkled.
–
But fields I plow with ox and ass
and sow them with the first spring grass,
and work and hope, wait and care
for harvest time, earth’s bounteous share.
–
For fifty years have I done so
though fifty more years I don’t know,
for I’d be one-hundred nineteen
and man does not so long stay green.
–
Earth goes on as she always has,
bearing fruit as she can, whereas
hardy in frame, fickle in mind,
the weather is another kind.
–
Ice and snow, sleet and falling rain
come unbidden, and death in train,
like our little ones two and three,
though we kept Óric and Ílly.
–
One stayed with us to work the farm
and one wed, giving them her arm,
though need it we did not, I guess,
for we managed well, regardless.
–
I think I will seek sleep tonight
earlier than my wont, despite,
for I tire, though I feel content,
and perhaps I’ve just had my stint.
–
And peace comes at the close of day,
not because all things I can weigh,
but because in love all things rest
in acceptance of the final test.
