My father climbs into the silo.He has come, rung by rung,up the wooden trail that scalesthat tall belly of cement. It’s winter, twenty below zero,He can hear the wind overhead.The silage beneath his bootsis so frozen it has no smell. My father takes up a pick-axand chops away a layer of silage.He works neatly, counter-clockwiseunder a yellow light, then lifts the chunks with a pitchforkand throws them down the chute.They break as they falland rattle far below. His breath comes out in clouds,his fingers begin to ache, buthe skims off another layerwhere the frost is forming and begins to sing, “You are mysunshine, my only sunshine.” – Posted very late…