Sickle Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Sickle

Sun is out and is hot
Can it be a record?
As it was our winter…

Some maybe; I do not
I cannot
Forget and not recall…

Sun is up in sky
A midday, sun golden
No breeze, no trace of cloud
Off stones and the rocks
One can see the steam is rising
They reflect the sun-heat
And it is Ramadan
And Dad's mouth closed; tight
And sweat on forehead
Is running in drops.

Handkerchief
Covers him as cowboys
As women and pirates…

He is none…

The blade that he holds
Seems to eye is half circle
Sharp inside,
It can cut brutal,
He moves it left and right,
Makes bundles of cut wheat
Straws are golden as are seeds
In their husk.

I could and can still
Read each move with appeal
"Son, this is what life is;
Be honest and faithful, hard-working."

How badly I miss him
Forever will love him…