Cattle cut their teeth
on frozen vegetation
in pastures painted white
along the interstate.
    
In wooded fencerows,
calves take refuge
to escape the crispness
left by breaths of arctic cold.  
Their wooly coats are fluffed
to shield them from the wind.
  
The dawn unfurls
and November sighs.
I shiver at the thought
of moonbreaths soon to come  
and eliminate December  
from my lexicon.
  

You were not there
the day I cleared your workbench
and found a pair of leather gloves
that bore the curvature of your hands.
    
Shortly before your Thanksgiving stroke,
you asked that your niece and I
contact Jerry Standen,
a local auctioneer,
to dispose of your worldly goods.
    
The two of us spent countless hours,
sorting and boxing
and reliving times
you spent outdoors on the farm.
For you to trim the lower limbs of oak,
wearing that pair of work gloves
to hold the long-handled pruners,
was a seasonal ritual with you.
   
And though you have pruned your last,
the sweat-stained gloves remain
as testimony of your labor,
gloves grown stiff with aging,
much like your own hands.
  
Two days following the auction,  
you breathed your last.  
The likeness of your hands  
will keep my past
forever present.  

Suspended in the air,
A ring of smoke.
Stuck in the ear,
A resonating note.
A glass of wine,
Half filled.
A captivating smile,
A twinkle in the eye,
A single soft heartbeat,
And a lingering touch...
A mental picture taken
Of an ageless moment.

My father waved as off I ran,
and ran until I was a man.
  
The man stood, blinking in the sun,
and gazed back on the miles he’d come.  
  
The white sun sank, the moon sailed by,
a shining woman caught his eye.
  
He blinked and when he looked again,
seven children bore his name.
  
I’d tell you more but I must run,
another blink and he’ll be gone.