The Woman and the Plow
Michael J. Arndt
The small woman arched her back,
Aching where she had bent and pushed
against the plow.
.Her air matted, sweat-soaked, Mixing with the hours of black dirt built upon
her brow.
A cold wind licked her neck,
Marking how fragile were the signs of spring. The reins jerked, tight-twisted,
Reminding her painfully once more of
that thing.
Her husband plowed up ahead,
Straining to cut the furrow for his wife.
She looked around the land,
Resisting, it seemed their calling it to life. Her thoughts dropped in her mind,
Probing deep recessed corners bathed
in pain.
The images cleared, seared-bright,
Smelling even the bed on which she'd lain. The unexpected flood exploded on her brain, Rushing from behind her eyes to mix the dirt
with tears.
She reached to wipe, to plug this unwanted tide, Denying and forgetting as she had all these
last years.
She leaned into the plow,
Forgetting the resting horses as the reins
lay slack.
The tears would not dam up,
Slumping her sobbing down like a discarded
burlap sack.
Two shadows darkened before her eyes, Slipping her subtley away from the horror,
the fears.
The boy and the girl stood hand in hand, Searching her face as their faces too were bathed
in tears.
She reached out then and drew them in, Drawing their warmth, it seemed, into her soul. Their small arms grasped tightly,
Knowing that which they could not ever know. She held them there suspended,
Mixing with their love, her thoughts of pain. God, she thought, today has sent them, Giving me, not loss, but gain.
She raised herself and took the plow, Looking back, the furrow arced, one clump of
weeds let go.
Forward, the land lay open, ready
waiting for the work, the future hopes to grow.
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