Poetry

Late on an October day

He looks out across

His land-

Another harvest done-

Rests his hands

On the straps of his bibs-

Mulls over the idea

Of this year being his last-

His lean-hard body

A tired silhouette

Against the western sky-

And he calls to his wife-

“Honey, come look at this-“

Their hands squeezing together

And not wanting to let go.