After the Wishing Star Goes Down
       

Supper was sober tonight,
the talk sparse. We settled lightly
enough on the porch, but Trask
figured heavily the hail loss,
then retired early.

To sleep with nothing in our heads
but the turn of the earth and the slow turn
of seed to stubble .. . . Trask stood in clover
this morning and said turn it under.
The first clouds came soon after.

Tomorrow I'll cancel the new combine
and hitch the horse. Trask will have to go.
The furrows in his brow knit nothing but worry.
I know the knot a man is
who faces labor without love.
Last month we feared dry soil,
so we planted barley
because we had to plant something.

When real rains came, he lay in bed.
I went out alone and found white roots
pushing down to drink rain, and sprouts
just topping the crust. Had he seen then.

Tonight I told him years back
this whole valley was nothing but dust.
He grunted, said, nothing's Changed.
This hail fell hard. I saw birds
go down and cattle bruised.

So the barley's busted down to dross:
it'll make good pasture for now.
This storm will give us plenty
of wet for a new wheat crop.
Nothing comes to nothing, if the timing's right.
Stop turning it over and get some sleep.
The evening star is hours down over the hill.

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Copyright © 2018 Neil Shepard All rights reserved
from How It Is: Selected Poems
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission