I know you are thinking of the accident–
of picking the slivered glass from his hair.
Just now a truck loaded with hay
stopped at the village store to get gas.
I wish you would look at the hay–
the beautiful sane and solid bales of hay.
— from “Evening at a Country Inn” by Jane Kenyon, wife of Donald Hall
I’ve just discovered Jane Kenyon, though I’ve known about and admired her husband’s works for some time. What I like about Jane: she’s so dependent on seasons and weather and time of day. Her poem-worlds are firmly grounded in real places. Her insecurities, her depression, her relationship with her husband, her very thoughts while she writes and while she cleans the house all become her poetry, which is lovely and intimate, not at all boring. And she admires hay bales. As do I. What is more satisfying than a field of perfect round bales, each brightened by the sun on exactly the same spot?