The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Jon Ballard

SNOWBOUND TRAVELER

His russet face and frame have something to say,
To teach you—a stranger—about the fields
In these parts; about shoveling the world: Spring
Snow—but also post-holes, fire-pits, manure-piles,
Graves.  His wife must be in some other part
Of the old farmhouse, feeding the cats
(If they don’t have cats, you swear
You’ll turn in your cynic’s badge for good.)
Outside March wind abuses porch chimes  
Into a vexing clatter; snow is driven high
Against the grain silo, against your car—
Podgy blue carcass—at the end of the drive.  
Then the farmer’s voice: “Sleep here
On the davenport. Morning the plow’ll come.”
He brings you pillows, blankets—no sign
Of the wife—though the bedding, thin
And faded by years spent drying on
Clothes lines in the sun, is covered in
Cat hairs, red tabby you think, the wild
Orange of Garfield the Cat, of this twilight.

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