The snow has fallen all day,
flakes like leaves drifting,
burying every scrap and hole.
Found one of the old hens
frozen in the hay chute, brushed the snow
off the square boulder by the stream
and laid her there, offered to the sky,
the black scavengers that will land
when I walk back up the hill.
I will show my children,
when they come to dinner today,
what carried me over the hill of fifty
when I was so tired with all my doubt;
this morning twins, two new apple faces
in the corner of the ewes’ stall
peering through the crowd of legs.