Burlap sack snaps in the wind
again, the turn-rows grow longer.
Along the way, days become bygones—
dandelions dancing in the breeze.
Knees dig into loose soil,
toiling hands peel away a husk.
Dusk meets us with a cool smile
while flocks flutter aground.
Around the hearth our sorrows sup
abrupt as slumber broken.
Smoking ashes of dashed lives
strive to drudge on—listless, weary
clearly a near-forgotten lot,
not lost, merely trodden under truss.
Rusty umber clouds offer respite
desperate earth parched and dry.
Skies blow kisses to leaf and beast,
feast with thunder rolling over.
Sower’s seeds bide their time
pining to play a role in life.
Strife is only baked-clay crust
just before it splits and crumbles.
Humble beginning waits its turn
yearning to splay mother earth.
Birthed from the womb stem and stalk
balking, breathing among the living,
giving pith to the fibers of need
to weeds along the dyke and worms alike.