Thursday, August 11, 2011

Reliably Arable

August's auspices foretold a fell field.
Yet young husbands must hoe and hope for good yield,
though the frost has cost much and market prices bust.
Nothing grows in the stubborn soil.
It looks good to sow but is a swindle.
He'd thrown his savings into the dirt and nothing raised from the fallow earth.
Naught was given for working, for buying, nor as a gift.
His spirits would follow them were wheat shares to lift.
What's saved from last year would now be sold at a loss.
There's no time to spare as his wife grows ill.
She eats too little and the babe sups too much.
As a child, the farmer dreamed of sweet vittles, bunches of carrots spilling out
basket tops, potato spuds stopped at the horizon, onions as big as a man's head.
A chill wind spins dust.
The fresh farmer coughs.
The season of innocence was rent by parenthood.

No comments: