Father

where, from the pinion end
of an early Ford axle
the cow on her chain
will turn her new day's circle
in midst of the flowered field.

Then,
father, dumb hammer in hand,
sets the spike with an iron sound
that shatters my dream-filled sleep.

Awake, I see from the window
the Ford, the barn, the rock-walled field,
and Father

his head thrown back
blowing soda spumes of Breath
on morning's cool while snugging the spike
up on the cow who, low,
is unafraid of the granite sledge and chisel
carving her day.

Arcs and slashes- Arcs and slashes

The silent hammer hits
lifts
and with the up-stroke noise of distance
shatters the poise of heaven.

...