I'm putting my poem in this morning. I'll critique this p.m. More later.
Baling Hay
Late afternoon, sun stays bright,
temperature in the eighties.
As in years past, you and I sit captivated
in a truck on the side of a road watching
a couple bale hay in a field of grass.
The woman rakes, the man bales—
she, in one tractor; he, in another.
They do this thing together. They come on,
slowly, the sun moving toward the west,
puffy clouds hanging white
against blue sky.
She meticulously rakes hay into rows
just ahead of his baler. He follows
the straight rows with long sweeps
and circles the field after her. The man
spits out round bales of pale green
every two minutes then whirls
to pick up more hay.
We watch the tractors twirl, glide,
lead and follow. Another swing
around the field.
Unexpectantly, it comes:
they are dancing. Partners dancing.
Partners waltzing in a ballroom.
Such beauty. Such grace.
Mesmerizing.
Pat Durmon, 2012
Baling Hay
Late afternoon, sun stays bright,
temperature in the eighties.
As in years past, you and I sit captivated
in a truck on the side of a road watching
a couple bale hay in a field of grass.
The woman rakes, the man bales—
she, in one tractor; he, in another.
They do this thing together. They come on,
slowly, the sun moving toward the west,
puffy clouds hanging white
against blue sky.
She meticulously rakes hay into rows
just ahead of his baler. He follows
the straight rows with long sweeps
and circles the field after her. The man
spits out round bales of pale green
every two minutes then whirls
to pick up more hay.
We watch the tractors twirl, glide,
lead and follow. Another swing
around the field.
Unexpectantly, it comes:
they are dancing. Partners dancing.
Partners waltzing in a ballroom.
Such beauty. Such grace.
Mesmerizing.
Pat Durmon, 2012