When cow pie cakes your boots, 
and you stomp across our kitchen, 
I am still here.   

If the bottom riser on the back steps
comes loose again, 
I am still here.   

Though you put empty ice cube trays back in the freezer, 
ignore uneven chair legs  and again
forget to unclog the kitchen drain, 
still I am here.   

When mud puddles, 
the baler breaks, 
the John Deere stalls 
and bottles of homebrew explode in the cellar, 
indeed, I am still here.   

I am here  when Lafferty’s cows come through the fence again – 
me, a white nightgown grabbing my ankles 
as I chase them up the drive.     

When Orion rises in the night sky, 
and your furious voice rattles the teacups, 
I will remain  

                    as long as I can touch the scar on your chin, 
                    the one I put there.