Old Billy

Hay bales,

Out in a field alone,

Strange forms out of season,

Capped with snow

And withering in the winds.

The farmer lived long and alone

After Lizzie died that spring a-ways.

A man with outsized hands

And sinewy arms

Who spoke in long silences.

Window

Shades on the old house

Pulled well down against the light.

Inside the shadows

And cobwebs mingle like lovers.

Barn roof

Sagging against the weight

Of age and the weather.

Silo boards rotting,

Only the odor lingers in the barn.

The bales

Curled in fetal rolls

Across the neglected landscape

Just a remainder that

At the auction no one wanted the hay.

Photo is of Bill and his youngest sister, 1903.