Nothing could ever please my father more
Than having all his grandfolk tag along
To help him in the doing of each chore.
His work was done much better with a throng
Of little people dashing here and there
And everywhere, each clamoring for a turn
At everything from riding Kate, the mare,
To turning the handle on the frothing churn.
When he had sent my mother to rest from noise
One rainy day, and, with his broadest smile,
Had settled down knee-deep in girls and boys
To turn the sausage grinder for a while,
The least one made his happiness complete.
“Granddaddy,” she observed, “is churning meat.”
–From Halfway Up the Sky (written in August 1949)
Helpers
First Plowing in the Hills
When it’s too soon for spring, and even too soon
To think of it, you’d think—some afternoon
You’re sure to raise your eyes and see them there
Cresting the topmost ridge that tries to pare
Whole sections from the sky; a man and team
Of horses plowing. Cloud and clod would seem
To feel the plowshare equally. You wonder
If the sun itself isn’t apt to be plowed under
In that steep enterprise. It makes you proud
Of men who’ll start out halfway up a cloud
To sketch designs for summer on a land
That isn’t sure of spring. You understand,
Of course, it’s hard work plowing up a hill,
And bottom lands grow better crops, but still
There’s something useful to the heart and eye
In men who plow the earth against the sky.
–From The Greatest of These (written in 1949)
Autumn of No Return
I remember a day
High-colored and warm,
An innocent day
That did me no harm,
With a bicker of bluejays
Quick in the elms,
With harvest fragrance
From apple realms
And grape dominions
Tich on its breath;
And nothing to mark it
The day before death.
–From Petals of Light (written in 1949)