Over here on the hill

Jack, can you hear me?

I’m trying to drop the pail

But I can’t keep my mind

on lowering the rope.

I think, instead, of you

in the valley

where you scythe the bending wheat.

I draw up the pail

careful not to slosh the water

(for then I shall have to refill it).

When you sit in the shade,

Do you wonder about the shade I sit in?

Where do you bundle the hay?

Do you toss it in piles by breaking it?

When the grain is gold and ripe, we’ll crush it

between grindstones to flour.

Carry it then in a sack

to my kitchen.

There on the table

flour and water will be scooped to dough

kneaded under the heel of my hand

left to rise.

I’ll remember the autumn, Jack

when you brought in the hay.

Now, come and eat of the loaf while it’s warm.

The problem with being a girl is that one does seem to write a great many ‘girly’ poems. Remind me to post one I wrote about Ninja Turtles. In fact, I’ll do it now.

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