Today she broke my heart.

I knew it would happen–

the day she would come home to tell me

about the whispering

and the hurt feelings–

the day when all you can do is hold her

and let the tears fall

wishing she knew what I know about frivolity

and how beautiful she is

and how the girl who hurt her is beautiful too.

Two days ago, I watched her smile

when we searched through books on the computer.

She’s been dreaming of horses

and so we ordered a book to match her dreams.

And today, when the tears stopped and she stood up straight again,

I watched her from the window

fly through the snow that clung to her trail of hair

across the yard rousing the birds from their trees

towards the mailbox

and return moments later

with a grin as big as the horse on the cover of her new book

and then back into the arms of our house again,

to read.

We are sitting in Church on Christmas Eve,

the choir has begun its adagio hum of Silent Night.

Outside we hear faint sounds

of the coming and going of cars

on the one main road that goes through town.

There used to be three dove prints

perfectly greased on the window to the pulpit’s side–

broad wingspans, thinking they could fly through;

now the cold has frosted them over

and oversized snowflakes fall to herald their loss.

They are angels now,

the voices.

My youngest son grips the plastic cup and candle within—

dancing eyes transfixed by the flame.

Wax drips into something permanent,

and trying hard to steady his hand

he tilts the flame to catch in mine

thus we go down the line, to the giant eyes of my middle child; the dreaming ones of my eldest.

One by one the candles light,

the voices fade

and snow cases the ground outside.

She’s supposed to work on her spelling tonight

I really should make her do that–

but we’re listening to O’ Holy Night

more than a month before Christmas.

I shouldn’t have wiped my eyes and turned away when she

lifted her voice and dramatically raised her hands to the kitchen ceiling

(not knowing that was the moment there would be no homework).

The boys have gone to their wrestling

and so we listen to Jewel;

her stuffed bears (too many to name)

are forming a circle around the kitchen table.

She whispers their words to each other

so that I cannot and do not want to hear.

She fidgets to intermingle their arms

let the phone ring

do not answer the door

we insufferably yell the lyrics and laugh,

yes–

her homework can wait.

Over the sound of the oven cooling,

and the music,

and the smells of dinner clinging to our clothes

we have found something in the kitchen

far more important.

All day I’ve watched the tractor from the center of my eyes.

She paces the field like a swimmer

and stays in her lane while taking much time to cross me again.

She sprays dirt into the waves of sun

gone too soon under the watery surface of dusk.

Her breathing stops with a decrescendo;

hitting the wall because no earth is moved after dark

(and so my connectivity to our greater world is paused).

I’ve never loved a farmer,

but I do love how his dirt spreads like sand,

deep brown and full-bodied in the grass.

I love his faith spelled in russet Braille

and that his boredom must be spurred by many things

save straight lines and loam–

not to mention the simple fact,

that he and his tractor are the only ones

who keep coming up for air.

Going for a run

I jump off the side of the road when the cars come;

I am alone with this building now,

like I wanted.

The blur of speed stirs a loose shingle

and the ghost churns the leaves in a circle.

From the corner of my eye

there is a body darting from the slump of window.

I am certain of five fingers,

alabaster clinging loosely to the toothy edge

and then the creak of floorboards

where presently there are none.

Another car and whirl of wind;

field mice stir from oxidized walls

squeaking and flitting at my ankles—

from inside

someone, something

sighs and shifts its weight.

I am close enough to hold that ashen hand in mine,

familiar enough to ask

which one are you

save the impenetrable boundary between us.

when cell phones have parted us

and factories and robots

and cars—

all those nice cars

and video games and grocery stores

and televisions

when it is hard to look you in the eye

and my fingers jerk

and my mind twitches

and my stomach searches

and computers—

all those expensive computers…

and i can’t sleep

and sometimes i sleep too much

and oh my God i’m twitching

it will be nice to look at this picture

and think about the barns.

the quiet barns

and the simple trees.

the calm farmer

the calloused hands.

the shoes, the clothes, the hair, the faces–

thinned out, not new.

the cock-crow light on the backs of chickens

the nimbus around the good milking cows.

the looks on their faces

as they pause for a long while

to survey all the greatness they’ve built…

There is a sameness between

little girls and the arch of a horse’s back.

The effortless current of mane

where still the comb gets caught;

grace in the solid line that follows the rise and dip of mood.

stormy eyes

that crave grassland

on which to fly…