Winter days were frigid, and the skies were overcast.
The January weather was a dreary polar blast.
February’s piercing air held claim to frozen hands.
My fingers chapped and bleeding from the daily chore’s demands.
And Mother Nature loved to blow her north wind in your face.
While you couldn’t help but dream of summer in a warmer place.
My father used to say, “The north wind blows in like a bomb.
And a north wind is always cold no matter where it’s blowing from.”
When March arrived, the sun would shine and send the heat our way.
It’s a time when I remember myself basking in the hay.
I’d choose an afternoon with sunshine and a clear blue sky.
Then I’d climb on top the haystack, prob’ly 15 hay bales high.
Back then the bales were smaller, mostly 80 pounds or so.
I’d pull up on the hay strings, start to open-up a hole.
One by one I’d throw a bale of hay off to the side.
And make a square hole big enough to crawl right in and hide.
I left the hole wide open so the sun could bear its heat.
Then I’d find a bale of hay to make a warm alfalfa seat.
I sat there contemplating. Whittling hay stems with my knife.
And realized how blessed I was. There ain’t no better life.
I’d let the sun take over while she warmed me off to sleep.
‘Twas more than just a catnap. Never needed counting sheep.
I dreamed of tall green pasture grass and watching horses feed.
While sitting in the saddle riding on my favorite steed.
I must have slept an hour, maybe two or even more.
‘Cuz there’s nothing like the warm sunshine to heal you to your core.’
But then the sun would cover up. A dark cloud in her way.
And my warming hut would soon be just the winter’s coldest hay.
I’d wake up with a shiver. Figured, “Better get to work.”
My loafing time was over. Didn’t have the time to shirk.
From atop the stack, I’d gaze at every horse in the corral.
Then throw a half a dozen bales to feed and keep ‘em well.
So when the days were sunny, you would see me atop the stack.
I’d be soaking up the sun and praying summer to come back.
