I still remember what the farm looked like
In the Fall when we were young. We would walk
To the farthest pasture, a one-mile hike,
And on the way we'd hardly ever talk.

Late November, and each night Winter's vice
Grew tighter on what leaves were left to brown.
The water in the lane-ruts turned to ice
That broke and tinkled when our boots came down.

The only warm-colored thing was one spruce
Near the orchard. The apple boughs were bare,
And as we breathed it seemed the smell of juice
Still lingered in the taste of morning air.

Careless we ate the air and drank the light
For the last time before the world turned white.

Other Borealis Press titles by Fred Cogswell: