I hoe thawed ground <br />with a vengeance. Winter has left <br />my house empty of dried beans <br />and meat. I am hungry <br /> <br />and now that a few buds appear <br />on the sycamore, I watch the road <br />winding down this dark mountain <br />not even the mule can climb <br />without a struggle. Long daylight <br /> <br />and nobody comes while my husband <br />traps rabbits, chops firewood, or <br />walks away into the thicket. Abandoned <br />to hoot owls and copperheads, <br /> <br />I begin to fear sickness. I wait <br />for pneumonia and lockjaw. Each month <br />I brew squaw tea for pain. <br />In the stream where I scrub my own blood <br />from rags, I see all things flow <br />down from me into the valley. <br /> <br />Once I climbed the ridge <br />to the place where the sky <br />comes. Beyond me the mountains continued <br />like God. Is there no place to hide <br />from His silence? A woman must work <br /> <br />else she thinks too much. I hoe <br />this earth until I think of nothing <br />but the beans I will string, <br />the sweet corn I will grind into meal. <br /> <br />We must eat. I will learn <br />to be grateful for whatever comes to me.<br /><br />Kathryn Stripling Byer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wildwood-flower/
