At dusk the girl who will become my mom

    must trudge¹ through the snow， her legs

    cold under skirts， a bandanna² tight on her braids.

    In the henhouse， a klook pecks her chapped hand

    as she pulls a warm egg from under its breast.

    This girl will always hate hens，

    and she already knows she won't marry a farmer.

    In a dim barn， my father， a boy， forks hay

    under the holsteins' steaming noses.

    They sway on their hooves and swat dangerous tails，

    but he is thinking of snow， how it blows

    across the gray pond scribbled³ with skate tracks，

    of the small blaze on its shore， and the boys

    in black coats who skate hand-in-hand

    round and round， building up speed

    until the leader cracks that whip

    of mittens⁴ and arms， and it jerks around

    fast， flinging off the last boy.

    He'd be that one——flung like a spark

    trailing only his scarf.

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