The Farmer

by James W. Spain, II

This cold New England morning
provides a frosty sensation with each breath
and leaves my ears and fingers
without feeling as I take my daily
trip to the barn well before the sun
rises and melts the frost from the roof.

I suffer through my seventy-fifth New England
winter and feel blessed to have the stiffness in my joints,
calloused hands and creases on my face.

With pain there is joy too. This old heart is warm
on this frigid morning. Warm with memories of
a family that is loving and friends that are true.

Some things cannot be grown, bought or sold,
they have to be earned on this cold New England


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