These were the clean white prairies of your birth.
So much winter for the picture window,
Snowflakes that mirror the likeness of mirth,
Your heart’s soil is a cup overflown
With silver ladling of her country laugh.
How her green shoot of a boy from the white
Reminded her of the long year’s green half.
Horses rage beyond the snow, beyond night.
Is the picture window a darkened mirror
Tonight? What tall figure’s shape strides within?
Youth’s years have gone. Age’s autumn is here
And September’s grim harvest must begin.
Will you give him a coin for the final
Crossing, or leap the fire of fondest sin?