Hands raw
from working the land,
back bent
and stooped
he hauls the last load
from the hay fields,
sighing in relief.

The stock will be fed
for
another
winter.

The sun burns
the horizon
as it has his skin
bronzed and glistening
among the wrinkles,
wrinkles
that
furrow
his face
like the fields
he plows
in spring.

Removing his worn
straw hat,
he wipes his brow,
hears her call him
to the evening meal
as she takes
the wash
from the line.

Later
in shadows of night
their silver-streaked heads  
propped
beside each other
in bed,  
their thoughts
struggle
with finances,
wondering
how long they’ll endure.
No words
need to pass,
their minds
are as one.

as sleep approaches,
clasping
hands,
they close
their eyes.

For now…

the land is theirs.