The jars of jam are lined up on the shelves.
The grain is ground. The cheeses stored away,
Waiting for the winter. Each one of ourselves,
Weaving out this seasonal interplay,
Casts her own spell, designed so that the whole
Holds steady, and completed, right on time.
We watch the sky for clouds, our ribboned pole
For winds, our pond for ice. The pantomime
Of squirrels clutching nuts and climbing trees
Reminds us of ourselves, we laugh and then
We work some more: we pickle, and we freeze
What we don’t can or hang to dry. The men
Coming in, stamping from the snowy woods,
Sense that everything is laid by, snug and good.