Hay Season - Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
The farmer wiped, flick of the hand
the perspiration off his weathered face.
The day was done and thanks to God
there'd be the itchy task of throwing fragrant hay
into the loft, to ripen and to rest for winter.
The wagon rolled through dusty streets
right through the center of his town,
a friendly wave, and now and then a nod,
a bit of cloud in from the East, perhaps it was
luck of the servant of the land, well-earned.
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