Nothing today. No rain, but cool
perfection—no excuse
for not blooming, producing fruit.
It’s how the seasons raise us
like vegetables
on the uneven ground within
the wild, small irrigated spaces
we inhabit with routine
worn smooth by calloused hands.
We have become domestic
after all these years
of shipping truckloads to town,
watching our harvest disappear
down the road—
nothing today, but good habits.
My head spins
another yarn
about the old days,
the old ways
we found comfort
with a job done.
The harvest of Emperors,
wobbly wagonloads
of purple grapes
picked and swamped
from field to shed
before the rains came.
The many hands
wearing a day’s work
beneath September’s sun
well into dark
for a dollar an hour—
each rich
with a small part
of another accomplishment
that dared God’s
impending forces
to escape with the crop.
Another currency
we all shared
with profanity
meant for the moment—
damning Him
and ourselves
when we failed.
drycrikjournal 