The Farmer's Great Labor

I approached the field, my eyes met the stems across my palms I held the harvest— calloused furls, smooth ochre, future straw bales and sackcloth flour for market, storehouses and homes; supported by tillers.

The Farmer observed his hired hands. Their backs rotated—a clock face of tanned skin with shoulders wide; from dawn their arms ticked to dusk, leaning arched and stiff. Singing they gleaned and planted, but from their work, none could make the wheat grow. I saw his constant stride, leather boots dropping repeat tracks in the dirt, guiding the field. His look threshed their laboring hearts casting judgment and grace, Some slept clothed in the shade when he passed them, they’d roll over—he’d smile. Others toiled making furrows through soil, faster wound their backs, yet his stride remained steady.

The Farmer’s face was an old barn, ruts from wheels formed the wrinkles circling his eyes, his color darkened and gray, his voice mixing storming guffaws. His neck skin drooped, while bristles protruded from the glumes in my hand, his short, gray stubble covered his neck and jaw.

He didn’t need to greet me, I had witnessed all that was plain in the field. “Come here,” he said, “don’t be afraid. You can work for me.” Then the Farmer revealed seedlings crawling through dirt, little sprouts unaware of dangers ahead, shoots climbing upward. “I promise,” he said, “the wheat will grow.”