This prose poem recently appeared in the latest “Story Circle Journal”.
They’re young; they’re handsome; they’re mine for six months.
Two seventeen year old South Americans. The Brazilian has never
seen snow. It snows two feet in less than twenty-four hours, wind
shrieking along the canyon rim, drifts piling four feet high, roads
closed. Even the snow plows give up. We’re house and barn bound.
Horses need food. We all pitch in, climb through drifts, shovel.
Schools never closed are closed; offices closed. No lights on the road.
Two days later it takes us an hour rocking back and forth in the green
Off Road 4X4 truck to go the one eighth mile to the main road. After school
and work we leave the truck near the road and trudge down the long hill
to the house. By flashlight we struggle back up the next morning, trying
not to fall. Even boots fill with snow. That evening, the boys insist
we drive all the way down to the barn. I start to fix dinner. They tell me,
“We’ll be back in an hour. We aren’t going through that again!”
They shovel tracks for the truck all the way from the barn to the main road.
I miss them, especially in winter.