The farmer stands
On his stretch of land
And raises a callused hand
To his eyes.
There beckons not a sound
But a whisper from the ground
No there isn't but the sound
Of the dirt as it sighs.
He dusts off his shirt
Silently blesses the Earth
Thanks God for the dirt
That takes the seed where it lies.
Beautiful heartfelt take on this prompt, great solitary images...
ReplyDeleteA very nice poem. Very down to earth and your attachment to harvest time deeply felt.
ReplyDeleteI like this one ...up beat and true
ReplyDeleteyour words left a great picture in my mind
I like the form you used here and how it all ties together, wonderful poem indeed!
ReplyDeleteI love the way this poem truly reflects the toil involved in farming. Great effort.
ReplyDeletevivid image.
ReplyDeleteOh I loved this--and my father would too. He was born on a farm back in the mid-20s and I know he would appreciate these images.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful!
What would harvest be without farmers with calloused hands? Wonderful!
ReplyDelete