Savonia

The farmer’s wrinkled hands

ache from threshing barley,

and her shawl is worn thin in places,

from the perpetual motion

of her arm and her shoulder.

This, all in the age before people knew about torn muscles and

rotator cuff surgery and

scented hand sanitizer and

blood pressure medicines.

For her, the crackle of the kindling

in the hearth and the hand pie on the table

are enough to keep her warm on this frigid evening,

just as the light in the west glows through

the birch trees on the horizon.