Harvest in the Black Hills
#102
I’ve wondered how they kept the blades that sharp
For such cutting when they struggled with scythes.
Hay is tough, dullness only plucked it like a harp;
Why some men left the harvest to their wives.
Today, machines can cut and bale a field
Within hours, but can’t increase the yield.
The flung bales crush the serried rows
Of severed stalks, but scattered straws
Defy the yield like impudent scofflaws,
Yet to be turned under by the plow.
We keep our distance, merciful and shy,
And dare not bend a stalk with shoe or eye.
In memory of Lucien Stryk, poet, teacher, friend.
Note: This sonnet is one from a sequence of poems after paintings or images called “Brushstrokes.” The entire sequence can be viewed at the blog, Zealotry of Guerin. Photo taken by the author.
Latest posts by Christopher Guerin (Posts)
- A Sunday on La Grande Jatte (Seurat) - August 3, 2013
- Hyde Mill (Sandy Ellarson) - July 27, 2013
- Hands and Feet (Alice Bea Guerin) - July 20, 2013
- Cafe Terrace at Night (Van Gogh) - July 13, 2013
- Winter Landscape (Sesshu) - July 6, 2013
A perfect tribute.