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I wrote this for a poetry contest a few years back. The prompt was a wheat field. Written 11/13/2010


Submitted:Aug 25, 2014    Reads: 9    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


I walk across these fields,
like ancestors long gone.
Observing all the yields.
My work is almost done.

The golden grain I see
has traveled down through times,
like music sung to free
the harness from men's minds.

The work those men endured,
through hot and beating sun,
I know it all insured
that our lives were more fun.

No tractors could be used
to ease their aching backs.
As oxen plowed, men bruised
hands, treading muddy tracks.

Looking back, I know
their work was not in vane.
Those fields that they did sew
make my work seem mundane.





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