Harvest Time
A setting sun will weld a field of wheat
to solid green so every deeply shadowed
dip and rise is armor on the land.
I stopped my car and stepped boldly out
on that hardened green and sure enough,
as long as I walked toward the setting sun
the harvest held me up. I saw these things:
my father teaching me, though without patience,
things I thought I did not want to know:
How to harness a team. The sweat-soaked
collar first, then smoothing out the tangle
of black straps down the back and over
the massive rump. How to build a stack
of hay, laying one layer over the edge
of the next to hold it in place. And look:
my mother over there, hip-booted, up
to her knees in mud, all the force of
Greek and Latin from her classic education
lavished on the gentle arc of sprinkler
pipe held tightly in her arms.
The sun’s lower edge touched
the horizon. The armor softened
underfoot. The sun went down. I sank
into the wheat and wept that had left
so much unsaid so much indeed unthought
and walked back in the shadowed twilight
heeding one more thing my father taught
me. Put your feet sideways between the rows
so as not to diminish the harvest.