The Farm Hand

Potential lies beneath his feet,
A delicate blend of moist and heat.

Brutal are these rugged lands,
As pain inflicts upon these hands.

His vision will carry him through the fight,
As he works the earth, dawn to night.

Time stands still, or so it seems,
His brow drenched from relentless beams.

Out of nowhere, they race towards light,
A vibrant green takes on new height.

A clash of pride and hope torments as visions manifest,
The green becomes a darker shade, in shade he finds more rest.

The end arrives, as time now flies,
His wounds have all but healed.

Making his way down every row,
He gathers all his yield.

Rested at the table,
Among the colors of the earth.

Grace is given for the sacrifice,
For a farmer knows its worth.

 

By Redbud Patriot

 

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