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.