Jamie Street

The Bristled Farmer

and Fickle Mistress

If he’s still drawing breath
tomorrow
before that blush
of morning
…. his piercing blues
will be locked into
her eastern rosy ride
onto the equinox
ㅤ — as always.
The ritual.
The harvest prayer.
A Grandfather’s.
A Father’s.
And now, his.

An old Stetson rests
history
atop his head hung
in forlorn hope
brim rippled
from finger’s grasps
… its years counted
by the bands
in sweat.
His field blown
heat and blustering
a sound
… like wind
thru crumpled paper
rustles a tattered corn.
Rows on rows
the brown silked sentries
stand ㅤbent,
dry graying ears
droop too early ㅤ
heads bowed
toward lifeless
and cracking ground
in mourning.