The Farmer's Lot
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!