My father’s fields are far from here.
I shot my share of blackbirds there.
Drove a harvester in summer.
Gathered plums.
Gathered chums.
The tractor-trailer rigs would come.
The pickers, singularly or in vans.
And in summer the canneries began.
If I was asked to ride the John Deere then.
To reap, I’d reap; to thresh, I’d thresh. Men,
I’d winnow you. I’d winnow a few.
I’d take you, dear John, or whoever is you.
Love is easier to achieve than you might think. Sooner
or later the combine gives out. & sooner.