I knew a farmer once, every day he'd wake at 5
and work til 5 to
His skin grew think on his hands and began to crack,
through here his soul grew.
Little blades of grass pushing out
as if the longing for rest
was forcing itself into the world
as days grew cold and nights longer
the ground became harsh as he shoveled through.
His bones told stories of countless hours worked
and his eyes, cold and tired, left stories behind.