The Farmer’s Dance

Tap tap typing.
She recalls missing
The tap tap raining
On the red tin roof.

The humidity outside
Nearly enough to quench.
Quench, it will not.
Drench, though it will.

Drench a man, her man,
In his self-made rain.

Drip drip dropping
On the kitchen floor
His clothes saturated
By his sweat.

From the mix
Of the heat
The humidity
And a long, hard day.

A repeat of the day before,
A predecessor to many more.

Trickle trickling down
Her cheek and on to the page
As she types her tribute
To her man.

Softly drop dropping onto the page
Tear after tear as she watches
And types her tribute
To her man.

If she could capture
Her tears on the page,

If she could bottle the perspiration
On the floor from her man,
If this were possible
She could slake the thirst of the crops.

With the tears of her tribute
And the sweat of her man.
But this she can do
By metaphor only.

And metaphorically does
Tonight as she often has.

He stands and downs the last
Of the glass of water
For which he took his little break
Having doused his thirst for now.

Steadfast and ready for more
He turns to go
And irrigate the corn
And irrigate the beans.

Tap tap she continues
To type her tribute to her man.

The Godly, hard working man.
Her man. They silently pray.
He in the field,
And she at her desk.

Thank God for the crops
Thank God for the man,
And so they continue
This dance. They must.

For the rain dance always works
When danced long enough.

© Dr. Phil Bryant




Filed under Poetic Perspectives

4 responses to “The Farmer’s Dance

  1. Vicky

    Lovely and picturesque words.

  2. angelita pascua salamero


  3. Thanks for the “Like,” Dragon & Hana!

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