The wearied farm boy
Was due for a pause.
He leaned on his pitchfork
And pondered the cause.

The heat of the summer,
Stacks of brome in the mow
Were the day’s lone endeavor,
Hence the sweat on his brow.

Time again to stir the mules,
Back to the field for another load.
The wagon creaked in concert
With each bump in the dusty road.

The farm boy wondered,
Was this all he’d ever do ?
Was his life an endless windrow?
Were his choices all too few?

Again he pitched the cured hay
‘Til wagon stacked again with green.
And again pondered the distant view,
As pretty as he’d ever seen.

Its reply took him aback!
Were this to be his only plight,
He just might discover
That the ways of his world were right.