Hay Season Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
Hay Season
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.
No luck involved Herbert. These wily old farmers know better than any weather forecaster, which I think is written in the furrows of your poem. Great. Danny
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 11:18:31 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I love a poem which takes me to a time and place, especially to a person (if this makes sense) . Thank you for this poem.