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.