Stranded ankle-deep
in snow,
the tall poles of
the hops field
sketch runes on
the winter sky.
Wind across the river
bottom
aches with lonely
ghosts exhumed
from brown and
dog-eared histories.
Trying to snap a
photo, I’m caught
in the breath of invisible
worlds.
You hide your smile
in the car
while I brace
myself on absence,
my tough Norwegian
sweater
armoring my vitals
but leaving
my intellect exposed.
The river,
sulking just beyond
the field,
clings to its
identity despite
the chill blown
down from Canada.
The hills beyond
look tired
of being hills, but
lack volition.
In summer the hops
grow
twenty-five feet up
these poles.
They love the
aerated valley soil,
rich and iron-red.
Their bines
get plenty of
support from rope
or wires, their ripe
cones filling
with powdery gold
lupulin.
You don’t care
about the fine points
of growing hops and
brewing beer
but prefer to face
the low orange sun
and embrace its
tender lessons.
The wind flicks
little gouts of snow
dancing across the
rutted slick.
As I take my photo
I glimpse,
in the whorl of my
bad eye,
a bit of
ghost-green lingering—
an overlap of
dimensions
that defines us
despite ourselves.
