The grinding of the grain,
An intoxicating hum.
Hay bales piled high,
prickly building blocks.
We harvest as farmers,
and are self-sufficient,
Knowing the weather,
Of tomorrow will come.
Only after he ‘d stolen leisure,
From work on the farm,
Did he realize how long,
the summer days had become.
Among fresh cut wheat,
Standing there in the eve,
a cool breeze on his face,
Leftovers from the day,
To appease the nights fate.
Time to eat dinner,
And sleep.