Abandoned Farmyard, November

Today I saw near a barn 
the bed and crossbar of an old hayrack, 
sunk into earth like the hull of a boat, 
a dying thistle bloom grown out 
from the soft mulch 
of wood, 

                                    and I thought of winter 
already deep into Wyoming, 
my father dreading 
and welcoming it, ample reason 
to refuse all tasks, his ragged 
pasture fences submerging 
into snow. 

                                    I opened 
for a cold wash of pain, 
but my shoulders relaxed 
in the late autumn sun; light deepened 
into that startling place 
where no one comes to visit.