my father’s hands
take the brunt
of winter, find
the wind, snow,
biting ice; battlefences, cattle,
cars, firewood,
another drift
in the lane.they crack.
tight, slick, red
and even black-
blue in places.as a child i held
them at the table,
traced the cracks
with my thumb.Erica Romkema
Photo by Jon Zowalki