My best friend at graduate school (well, and in life) is a poet and essayist. This poem appeared in Prairie Poetry.
During Harvest
My father laughed louder, smiled
quicker. Even when the wheat
measured only thirty bushels per acre,
he’d tell a joke, wink. Riding home
from the field, he’d calculate bushels
to truck loads to bills he could pay.
Once home, sleep came like a thunderstorm,
unavoidable and full of rain.
–Dana Salvador
You did Mrs. Beeton’s Mitts! So very nice. I have limited time but just wanted you to know I found your blog…very nice talking in the woods today! And always wonderful to meet another knitting person.
I really love this poem. My parents are farmers and this makes me think of my dad!
Dana is amazing. Just amazing.