James Grove tilled the soil in dry Nebraska,
but only children grew above the crumbling ground.
So he, his wife, and boy and girl adapted:
loading past and future in a wagon,
they followed rainclouds north.
Lakes and river halted them.
The snow caressed them where they stood.
Around their pans and blankets
they constructed shelter from the rain
with logs and watered earth.
He laboured in a sawmill,
but made good money digging water wells
by hand. He poured alcohol and water
at the Commercial Hotel bar.
Raised horses, chickens, cows and pigs,
all well-fed and watered,
then harvested their wealth
to build a house for seven children.
Became secretary for the schools,
road councillor, and even
a Forty-Ninth Alberta Dragoon.
* * *
Old man Grove on a cloudy day
binds up his boots, belts up his coat
and wades through foot-deep snow.
At the bank of White Mud Creek
he stops and looks at what has grown
since he arrived so long ago.
Snowflakes thread the dogwood twigs.
They work around the contradiction in the wood,
the way it separates and moves in new directions.
They jig and spin around:
no telling what a snowflake does, or did; will do.
Until it settles for a time,
and in the spring is gone.
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