by Kathryn Stripling Byer

    I hoe thawed¹ ground

    with a vengeance². Winter has left

    my house empty of dried beans

    and meat. I am hungry

    and now that a few buds appear

    on the sycamore， I watch the road

    winding³ down this dark mountain

    not even the mule⁴ can climb

    without a struggle. Long daylight

    and nobody comes while my husband

    traps rabbits， chops firewood， or

    walks away into the thicket⁵. Abandoned

    to hoot⁶ owls⁷ and copperheads，

    I begin to fear sickness. I wait

    for pneumonia⁸ and lockjaw. Each month

    I brew⁹ squaw tea for pain.

    In the stream where I scrub my own blood

    from rags， I see all things flow

    down from me into the valley.

    Once I climbed the ridge¹⁰

    to the place where the sky

    comes. Beyond me the mountains continued

    like God. Is there no place to hide

    from His silence？ A woman must work

    else she thinks too much. I hoe

    this earth until I think of nothing

    but the beans I will string，

    the sweet corn I will grind into meal.

    We must eat. I will learn

    to be grateful for whatever comes to me.

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