Iowa: in 4 Seasons

What is the texture of the land
in winter
where the farrows find the ice
that mirrors the sky,
as blue as our veins,
and running
between the rows,
of this once fertile soil?

It is
as red as the sun
when last it settled
into the drying corn husks,
a reckless match,
igniting the autumn,
and what is only whispered
in scents that rise
like ambitious angels
into the failing light.
Meanwhile...

The smoke of summer
comes to be asphyxiated
by the wet laundry
hanging like the shroud
of humid August,
where we are seated--
eager and smiling--
at this picnic
underneath the rays
of a demanding sun.

The weight--
all these labors--is barely
able to remind us
(without burden)
of this love.

What is the texture of the land
in spring
when so much
of what we are
is renewed:  wedding vows,
interest, a magazine
subscription.

Our hands are seeking
heat and sun and light.
And there is nothing
so easily remembered
as the angle of the sun
in childhood
on Easter morning.