A small plot of land in the Midwest,
where time is measured in suns.
From dawn to dark, you give only your best
with tools, some toil and your guns.
You're a merchant of wind, tender of grain,
work and risk both have their price.
Only a stop for a quick prayer for rain,
watching seasons rolling like dice.
The land calls to you, as if it could talk,
speaking fragmentary whispers, true.
Touching a soul's soft under stalk,
confirming that which you knew.
You belong on this piece of flat land,
dark soil to be thy future grave.
A farmers life, the patriot's stand,
for it upholds the strong and the brave.
- Brigid 2009
http://mausersandmuffins.blogspot.com/
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Thank you. No one said anything so I thought. "Oh great. Poetry corner again and the audience has gone to asleep."
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you liked it.