Harvest Poem by Isadora Quagmire

The fields are gold, the skies are brushed with gray,
And morning fog still clings to rows of barley.
We rise before the breaking of the day,
And feel the cold that cuts through every valley.
Our hands are busy, boots are thick with clay,
The barn doors creak, the wheelers start to fill.
The sound of work fills up the harvest fray,
As we gather all the crops and take our fill.
Potatoes waiting in the soft, dark earth,
Carrots lined in rows, their tops turned green.
Barley heads are heavy, ready for their worth,
And squash and pumpkins lie in fields unseen.
We haul the crates and fill the trucks with grain,
And pack the bins with onions, crisp and bright.
The work is long, but there's no room for strain,
Just steady hands, and getting things done right.
The air is sharp, the frost begins to bite,
But we don't stop, there's plenty left to do.
The barn fills up with harvests day and night,
The feast there, just waiting to come through.
We stack the tates, the squash, the carrots too,
And every field gets worked, from dawn till dusk.
The wind may bite, but there's no time to rue,
For this is what has been gifted us, harvest we must.
The days are shorter, the sun sets fast,
But we keep moving, with the end in sight.
We thank the Lord for what it's given us—
The rain, the soil, the work from morning light.
No riches here, but there's enough to live,
And we've got what we need, with plenty still.
Together, as we work, we've got to give
A thanks for what we've earned for the hungry stomach's fill.