The Marginal Farmer

Lean cheek, lone head. The work is never done. It wears a differing aspect if his hands Plying their utmost, keep a bit ahead.

In rocky soil scarified a seed Might or might not grow, all depending. Here even the wind is meagre, and light

Drifts cold through stalks and pods and numb fingers. Rough graveyard of his tribulation, rocks, Glare-flecked, igneous, lie thickly buried

Throughout his fields, whose produce he eats, A stale season's labor boiled, on oilcloth, With the same set resigned faraway look.

Elsewhere the skies are blue. His lips are blue. And the snowfence, a poor windbreak, is not up yet. Frost has heaved late earth and gemmed the rocks.

In the old silo this year's corn garnered Is likely, if he scrimps, to last the stock. Still at its base, raw and drear as sunshine

A pale alcohol seeps into his life.