When it’s Spring again…

Across a hardening field a tractor plods

solitary against the horizon of soft hills

and open sky on this late October day;

a tree line marks the parched creek bed,

fence rows are cleared bare; the field corn

has been met and siloed after teasing

declination and drydown’s senescence

bested the round of blister to dented,

a balance of planning without control;

and green machinery has just survived

another season’s toil with more

enervation this year than the last; and

he wonders if he can do it again and

again next season for that’s what he’s

always done, and that’s what makes

him who he is; invisible and heavy is

the chill of late day so discouraging in

town but bracing the resolve of him

who wears gloves every season, and

another turn will weaken that which

has served its purpose; there’s more

to do to sweeten the soil before it’s

blanketed beneath wintery a quilt

of sleet and snow, tucked away to

rest, to pause until resurrected in the

easter of spring; some hold on because

this is all they know and don’t know

how to be soured, others hang on

until the hope of better quotes turn

in their favor and they’ve forgotten how

to be satisfied, but this one has chosen

to die doing what’s work to others but

life to him alone and earns him a

name he’s respected above his own.