No salt scrub
nor chemical peel ever
shined that face
not Edna Larson
only the cadence of
94 summers and
93 winters
one cow farm
round hills
misted valley
every summer night
a symphony
the good farm lost to
a tornado in ’38
hand to mouth for seventy years
alone in the
howling winter
old walls bending
still awake at four
relieve the brown cow
knotted, powerful hands
milk spits
into tin pail
steaming
