Except in Memory
       

My father stands by the leaning tobacco barn
in the pasture field above our house,
shaking mineral salt out of a 50-pound bag
into a long iron trough as his herd of white-faced,
red-coated Herefords crowd around him.
I will not see that scene again, except in memory,
and wish I had a photograph of it, or better still,
video that shows him park his pick-up
at an angle, 30 feet from the barn and the cattle.
Then he lifts the bag out of the truck bed,
throws it over his shoulder to carry to the crib,
and cuts the braided string with a pocketknife.
The cows know the sound of his voice---they come
when he calls, they bob their heads, they lick the salt.

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Copyright © 2021 Jesse Graves All rights reserved
from Merciful Days
Mercer University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission