Member-only story
POETRY
The Off Season
To Robert Frost
The cows and mules still need attention;
The chickens always want their feed.
There’s the midday egg collection,
But not much else that might impede
The unabashed pursuit of play.
For half of half a year I’m freed
From mowing grass and baling hay,
Plowing earth and sowing seed.
No lambs to birth or pigs to kill.
No apples to pick or grain to mill.
Perhaps some fence to mend, or wall.
But it is neither fair nor right
That winter’s when I get my break.
The short cold days and long cold nights.
The buried road. The frozen lake.
At least I thought to chop some wood
Last spring when all the world was mud.
I tell old stories by the hearth
Or visit neighbors after church.
I’d rather be out with the earth,
Pulling oar, swinging birch.
My eye for need is unsurpassed,
My future hungers well foreseen.
I know the food I stored will last…
