Photography by Reka Jellema. Copyright February 2015 Silos
Driving home on rural roads, evening clouds
a gathering of cows, stolid muted husks
under the stars, a pair of silos watch
the silhouette of barn -- this farm,
these corn shuckings, poking
at the snow, the shiver
of the crow, wild turkeys far
from home, dim shapes
in the dusk, lurk at the horizon, lurch
between blueberry bushes,
fire in the dark, while in the coop
the chicks pop and glow, warmed
by violent light, hens and a cock
or two bunk down, feathering old wood
with pluckings, I can smell
brown eggs, feel the smooth shells, see
the warm ghosts of cow breath in the field,
and on and on the road, away
from Evelyn and John, the plot,
the old farmhouse, the schoolhouse
and the church, so small and white,
the chickadees, he knew their song, Dutch apple pie
she made the crust, butter, lard,
the pantry and the stores
Take the row beyond, corn land,
row upon row
withering gold
this winter longing
for your gnarled hand, soft
and damp with love, grandmother
you held me in, cupped
my cropped hair, stroked
my furrows, ploughed
with rough intellect, ruffled
with poems and suicide
and gin.
By Reka Jellema
Copyright February 2015
Driving home on rural roads, evening clouds
a gathering of cows, stolid muted husks
under the stars, a pair of silos watch
the silhouette of barn -- this farm,
these corn shuckings, poking
at the snow, the shiver
of the crow, wild turkeys far
from home, dim shapes
in the dusk, lurk at the horizon, lurch
between blueberry bushes,
fire in the dark, while in the coop
the chicks pop and glow, warmed
by violent light, hens and a cock
or two bunk down, feathering old wood
with pluckings, I can smell
brown eggs, feel the smooth shells, see
the warm ghosts of cow breath in the field,
and on and on the road, away
from Evelyn and John, the plot,
the old farmhouse, the schoolhouse
and the church, so small and white,
the chickadees, he knew their song, Dutch apple pie
she made the crust, butter, lard,
the pantry and the stores
Take the row beyond, corn land,
row upon row
withering gold
this winter longing
for your gnarled hand, soft
and damp with love, grandmother
you held me in, cupped
my cropped hair, stroked
my furrows, ploughed
with rough intellect, ruffled
with poems and suicide
and gin.
By Reka Jellema
Copyright February 2015
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