Winter In Iowa Poem by Bernard Henrie

The pump house and green tractor
lie on the broken edge of winter.

The unslakable azaleas tall as boys
knee-deep in ploughed snow banks.

I thought I saw you coming back
rolled in a red parka, your green cap
touched by ice crystals; the Arabic
phrases you speak to the livestock.

Two men drop hay for a dozen head
of scattered cows.

My overcoat drips into my shoes;
Iowa succumbs to winter,
kohl black shadows dark as your
Turkistan eyes;

The cows lean against the fence,
the wind leans against the cattle.