By Pete Tucker

The farmer perfects his windrows.
Might the morn bring a breeze?
There is promise of a rare day,
But he has no guarantees.

The heat begins to hover,
Needed for the pursuit.
He rakes again for good measure.
Bone dry, must be absolute!

Uncertainty is not his friend.
Hot days may end in showers.
He opts to stone his scythe blade
To wile away some hours.

Alas, it comes time to bale.
His Shires demand to move.
Champing at their bits,
As though to disapprove.

The traces are finally taught.
Tines  serve to chute the hay.
Bales of clover dot the field
‘Til a wagon hauls them away.

‘Tis the toil of the farmer
The loft swells with favored forage.
But, he’ll bale again tomorrow
‘Til he’s clearly out of storage.

The farmer can’t help but ponder.
His work is surely monotone.
But angst will not defeat him.
His seeds of patience long since sown.