A full moon

in the cold clear

of a January morning

traces the shapes of bare branches

on bare earth

as we move between

house and pasture.

Randa puts feed into the heavy buckets

as I pack water to the heated trough;

The hose is frozen again.

It seems hard to think

it can be that cold

after this run

of shirt-sleeve weather

in what is often

the harshest time of year.

It’s the nights that do it,

this dropping into the twenties

after climbing into the forties,

and the smallest bit of water

left where the hose bends

ever so slightly

back up the slope.

It is good to practice

a very deliberate caution

that does not allow

the seem of circumstance

to overwhelm the reality of truth.

H. Arnett

1/9/12