Those that rake the meadow sweet with hay, embrace the land’s gift ‘till end of ray/
Toil, shadow hunting long, greeting sun with grin, and night as friend/
Hands chafed, lips chapped, skin kissed, shoulders leant, legs bent, chin high/
Eyes down, mind stretched out to the world beyond the valley walls of the lea/
Honest work? Perhaps.  Captive to what might be versus what will be?  Truth.
What happens to the rimrock hand when clouds of the west carry weather foul, blowing through swale, clearing chaff from air; A whirlwind of change and fragments, wrack and foam/
of the world, our world, your world swept down a path of less than least resistance/
Like trees razed on a hill, laying down to the wind, there is no choice in the matter/
Eulogizing change to change is staring at the sun and waiting for a wink/
There is no changing trajectory in flight, winds send to where they send/
Few still rake meadows sweet with hay, and never dream of what might have been.