by William Heath
I remember Aunt Hazel’s two-story
wooden farmhouse by the roadside,
the flat fields of northwestern Ohio
stretching out in all directions until
they hit a tree line left on purpose
to cut down on the wind. The barns
are a short walk from the house,
and a rooster commands the area
where we park. My bedroom
is up very narrow wooden steps,
and in the morning when I come
down for breakfast the workers
have been out for hours, almost
since dawn, and when they return
after ten to eat, their meal
amounts to a hearty dinner:
meat, potatoes, corn on the cob,
pass the peas, string beans, freshly
baked rolls, and, at the end, pass
the cherry pie. In the cow shed
I watch bald-headed Uncle Ed,
a large, bony man with a wide smile
that displays his missing teeth,
straddle a one-legged stool to milk
a cow persistently swishing its tail
to keep off the flies, on occasion
hitting him in the face as he cusses.
I try my hand but hardly get
a drop, squeeze harder and pull,
he tells me, but at my rate it will
take all afternoon to fill a pail.
Later that day, sent on an errand
to the henhouse, I come back
with the glass egg. It isn’t
hard to see I’m not cut out
for a farmer’s life.