I see the green path
he and the cow make
scuffing the dew-lit frost from the pasture,

where, from the pinion end
of an early Ford axle
the cow on her chain
will turn her new day's circle
in midst of of the milk weed field.

Then,
father, dumb hammer in hand,
sets the spike with an iron sound
that shatters my dream-filled sleep.

Awake, I see from the window
the Ford, the barn, the rock-walled field,
and Father

his head thrown back
blowing soda spume of Breath
on mornings cool while snugging the spike
up on the cow who, low,
is unafraid of the granite sledge and chisel
carving her day.

Arcs and slashes- Arcs and slashes

The silent hammer hits
lifts
and with the up-stroke noise of distance
shatters the poise of heaven.