Richard Luftig

BRAGGING RIGHTS

There's not much to brag about
being seventy and living
in Iowa. Just winters spent
wrestling the angel like Jacob,
wearing scars of survival as a cloak
of honor around cold shoulders.

In February, the hawk and fluted
winds force willows and the old
to grip down with their roots,
fighting to stand upright.
People hold their breath and wait
for April to break Winter's back.

Now the old people bask
in the orange warmth of Orlando,
trying to learn the foreign tongue
of the sun. They close their eyes
and dream of lotus flakes
of snow falling in silent unison.

On the beach, sea oaks lean
their prayers in the wind
against a picket fence with slats
missing like Halloween
teeth, reminding old farmers of snow
fences that keep the fields

Company but go nowhere.
They breathe in the keen
salt air of twilight, dreaming
of gravel lanes lit with milkweed
and corn tall enough to make
valleys of unmarked county roads.