The Farmer's Lot

in ,

The farmer’s hands-

grease-blackened,

deep cracked splits

running with dirt, blood and rain-

unclog irrigation pipes

caked with the muddy detritus

of the flood’s reign.

He trails the field

with the weight of his shovel

dressed in Sunday best

longing to cradle the emerging, beating

fruit of life

to his chest.

Digging in with dirty hands

he feels when the soil is dry

and for all the sweating

and waiting for spring

new life emerges with a sigh.

Today I'm joining a Lenten poetry link-up at my friend Amy Peterson's blog. Check out the other poems and add your own!