Of bacon and soon-to-be-bacon
on this farm. "In the Pines" picking
staggers & trips
the air, gray snow in boots, porch beams,
creaks & sags spider
the house, riddles through the house. And how
early it is for snow to melt, the pond

unhinged.  A drink is all:

for me to miss you, cold radiance,
pheasant & mist balloon from the hill to my widows peak.

It’s a bad Christmas Eve by the quarry
with watery cooler, cold beer cold
gift of cookies, casting the black knot of sleeplessness,
missing funerals on granddaddy’s side.

Tomorrow carving: a rabbet to make in the loin, pork bellies,
the softest part will be untouchable,
soft back we have all to take.

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This poem is driven by two loves: 1) everything about bluegrass music, and 2) ripping off titles from my husband's philosophy papers.