Studying and imagining the past often helps keep my own life in perspective. In that spirit, since many are experiencing frigid weather, I share this poem:
Winter Worship
They arrived in November and found
no preachers in the settlement
of crabbed cabins, towering oaks, prairie.
Time dragged, full of cracked lips, frozen toes,
brittle sunshine, looming shadows.
Logs groaned, ice fractured, men cursed.
children burrowed hollow and dull beneath quilts.

Cora paid her tithes at the woodpile,
perched on a board in the snow,
ax clothed in mittened, frost-bit hands.
Chop and haul, chop and haul, bless
the warming muscles, curse the freezing sweat.
Then into the cabin to worship
at the cast iron altar, source of life yet
insatiable, glowing red as brimstone.

This selection is from my collection Balancing: Poems of the Female Immigrant Experience in the Upper Midwest, 1830-1930 (Little Creek Press, 2021).
(Top images courtesy Pixabay)