Hand-Haying
A
Adeline Foster
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The rhythm of the scythe plume
In the summer heat.
The step-by, step-by cadence
Of the old man's steady feet.
The zip-saw of the whet-stone
Against the metal blade.
The wizened hands like leather
That never knew the shade.
And I am just a child again
On a tumbled stoop;
Watching ancient haying,
Marveling at the crop
Of tumbled swathes of timothy
Symmetrically alive,
Falling layer on even layer
To the mercy of the scythe.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş