Harvest Thanks

He stands, watches;
Studies the stubble
In the field,
Stubble to keep
Soil intact,
Protecting;
Something like the
Stubble on his face.
She stands by his side.

It wasn’t the life
She thought she’d want then.
It was now, though.

It’s done, he says,
By the barest, glancing
At dark clouds
Threatening cold white.
Thought we might
Have to turn
The combine into
A snow plow.
But we made it.

She touches his
Relief, his gratitude,
His faith.

She links her arm through his,
Leaning into his side.
We did, she says,
We made it.
God is faithful,
Always.
She touches the gray
Beginning to drift
From his temple.

The first flakes of icy white
Kiss their faces,
Lightly.