Protected: Thursday Night, Hockey Practice (A Poem)

November 11th, 2010

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Other people’s rhythms

November 11th, 2010

I am sitting at the kitchen table where I like to work in the mornings because of the light that comes through the window, because of the way the light falls on the willow tree, because of the woods across the street. I am watching a delivery of wood being unloaded from the flatbed and added to the wood pile. It means that the chipper will come in a day or two to chip the wood and blow it into the cellar where it is used for heating. Out the other window, the window above my kitchen sink, my brother-in-law is mucking out his horses’ stalls.

It is strange, sometimes, to live on this farm but to be outside of these labors. To be on the farm, but in many ways not of it. It was agreed, when we moved here, that we were not becoming an active part of the farm – R has his job and though I may want a garden I do not want a field – and that’s the way I still want it. All the same, it is a shock, sometimes, to walk into the kitchen and see a tractor with a load of wood in my driveway. To watch, nearly every morning, my brother-in-law muck out the stalls. To judge the temperature by whether he closes the windows on the stalls before he goes home in the evening. To be on this farm and not having quite figured out, yet, how to be part of the rhythm.