HEATHER RAMSAY

Storm Warning

My mother measures value by how far apart 
the bales are rolled along the fields. Liquid light, 

whispering grass. Small lakes of salt. Yellow rape. 
She tests wheat by trying to break seeds 

between her teeth and says that’s how one knows 
when to harvest. A black band squats on the horizon 

and she can count the number of hours before the storm 
arrives. She remembers which turn to take to reach

the farm even though she hasn’t ridden bare
back across that land since she was nine. 

Now my mother’s soft hands close the back door 
and her soft feet walk from heated house to garage. 

She measures distance by the time it takes 
to drive between grocery stores. And she wonders 

why my father never takes the shortcut.