The slate gray abyss presses down upon
my mountain home,
It forces an uneasy feeling upon us
And causes Maw to snip at us.
“Was you born in a barn?”
“Don’t track in that mud!”
“Deed in God, ain’t you got a lick of sense?”
My wisecracking brother can’t help himself and responds:
“I don’t know, Maw, was I?”
“If they ain’t no tracks, how will it find its way back outside?”
“I reckon not, why do you keep asking?”
A glance out the kitchen window confirms
what is already known. The cold spell isn't letting up.
“I sure wish this ol’ weather would break,” Maw says,
as she returns to kneading her bread dough.
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