My brother got me again...
Medford, Wisconsin: 2006
On an August Wisconsin twilight,
I'm sitting on a blanket, surrounded by the
Northwoods trees, eating slices of salted
tomato and grilled hamburger, talking about
campfires long since extinguished.
I'm here with my husband and my son,
honoring his relatives and their calloused hands,
the hands of loggers and dairy farmers,
hands that work the cold, hard earth.
With their rounded "Os" and stories of logging accidents,
They welcome me, despite the fact that I know nothing
of ice fishing, and do not recognize a tree heavy with
sap, ready for its winter harvest.
Despite the fact that I do not know of an August
that has the whisper of winter in the air,
and the leaves beginning to turn.
I savor the juice
of a perfect summer tomato,
and learn from them.