Sunday, July 1, 2012

Scythe

The sun tips above the horizon
greening the grass
drying the dew.

The farmer wanders slowly
into the knee high grass,
bows slightly
and grasps the scythe
as if to dance.

His body sways
and dips
and the tall grasses
fall before his graceful arc.

He winds a path
through the field,
the scent of new mown hay
rising and spiraling into the wind.

The sun creeps upward,
as his shadow lengthens then ebbs
to a small circle beneath his boots.
Pausing to rest,
he turns and sees the rows of grass
like waves following his wake.

Around him a sea of green
sweet smelling and sun fresh
he turns back and again grasps
the scythe,

and once more begins
the ancient dance of man,
metal, grass and sun.

The whispering sigh
as the grass falls
soothes his soul
and plays a quiet tune
vibrating with the hum of bees
and the pulse of his heart.

Long is the day,
hard is the labor,
but deep is the love of the land
and the satisfaction of one man.

1 comment:

beagleAnnie said...

Beautiful poem. Sweat of labor is precious.