in pregnant fields
tractors with high beams
gobble up grain in the dark
turning golden ground into
piles of dirt
cereal-mobiles rumble
on gravel roads carved
through ever-swollen hills
fueled by ethanol and
kicking up dirt
rolling stock races
for the eastern seaboard
destined for distant lands
where little bluebirds
play in dirt
november two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
we worked the fields
wielding sickles
and scattered thoughts of
one day crossing the
border into worlds
before unseen
we step and sway and cut
and sing in praise as
women and children
transform the stalks into
bundles for the wind
and sun to remedy
we left the fields
nearly naked and dotted
with purposeful randomness
our backs still strong
our minds set on preparing
this evening’s meal
september two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
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