The challenge at Real Toads today is to write a poem based on the modern mechanical harvest. This is just right up my alley because my cornfield was just harvested last week.
Harvest used to be her favorite time.
Dry cornstalks rustling in the wind,
The promise of bills being payed.
When it was over for the year
and the last of the crops were sold,
it was a time to slow down and enjoy
the short days and long nights
at home with her husband.
Now as her son worked to
ready the combine the fear returned.
The memory of lights sitting
still for too long and
no answer on the cell phone,
the long drive in the pickup
to find the combine running
and seeing him bloody and
mangled by the massive machine.
Now harvest meant death and fear,
yet this was her way of life,
and she couldn’t leave the farm.
She kissed her boy and told
him to be safe and watched
him walk to the barn
to begin this year’s harvest.