Sleeveless, in straw hat,

sweating, dust streaked,

the farmer on a John Deere

drives back from mowing,

smelling strong and sharp

of himself, manure on his boots,

engine fumes, end of summer


Soon to come,

the drone of the locust,

frigid mornings, early nights,

time to mend tractors,

listen to market reports,

a barn dance now and then,

the clatter of the woman in a frock

setting the dinner table,

a chat with the stars

if the snow’s not too deep,

and the woman again

without a frock

if she will have him