Poems ✍️

, Hand-Haying

The rhythm of the scythe plume
In the summer heat.
The step-by, step-by cadence
Of the old man's steady feet.

The zip-saw of the whet-stone
Against the metal blade.
The wizened hands like leather
That never knew the shade.

And I am just a child again
On a tumbled stoop;
Watching ancient haying,
Marveling at the crop

Of tumbled swathes of timothy
Symmetrically alive,
Falling layer on even layer
To the mercy of the scythe.