(no subject)

Bringing In the Sheaves
by Jo McDougall

It’s 1945. The crops laid by
in October if he was lucky,
by Thanksgiving if not,
my father would throw his hat into the threshing machine
with the final shock of rice
from the final field.
That one moment of the year
he was jubilant, cocky even,
winning out
over creditors and blackbirds and rot.
Then the December rains,
the hunger for rattling machinery,
for sweat, for missing crews—
wasted months of accounting and tinkering.
He would have cut off his thumb and buried it,
had he thought that would hasten spring.
Then, spring—
when, laying his plow to the insolent dirt,
he began again.
Do you know, dammit, that I do SO remember.... horsedrawn harrows, and hayrakes, piking the corners when we DID get a combine - and what a MACHINE that was. (half the size of the ones now!)

What a lovely poem. thank you.
You're welcome.
I live in a huge farming area. Most are all machine done and then we have some Mennonites that do it all by hand. They always seem the happier better adjusted group