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Harvest


A chill wind pours through the acrid night,
Pierces within a gelled halogen shield,
And slips by the farmers year-weary gaze.


Carefully, and with mechanical care,
Each kernel of hope is stored away.
The air resonates with the preternatural thrum of engines,
Of money being made,
And spent.
For there will always be another harvest.


How many days of sunlight left?
How many more times will the frost kiss the earth,
Seeping away heat, time, and money?
Will we finish?
Or will the snow choose for us?
Slowing our struggle for another turn of the year.
But there will always be another harvest.


Hope is his only fuel,
Keeping his back to the uncaring stars
He waits.
For the grain to cease flowing,
For this harvest to finish,
For his harvests to stop.
Every wait is a little longer.
For there will always be another harvest.


So the farmer waits,
Each year renewing the bet against time,
Knowing not what else to do.
Waiting till there will never again be another harvest.

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