Renting Out the Fields

I no longer
lay claim to
this pasture, this fertile field
for another man
whose sweat falls,
mingling with the ripe soil
has made claim,
as well he should.
This plowed furrow
that lay so many years
within my sight,
this acre of rockstrewn worry
no longer listens when
I speak of tomorrow’s plan.
Another man
has lifted my burden
of broken balers and rain-soaked hay.
I sit, instead,
and from my porch
watch his tractor toil,
wondering whether
the seed he plants so late
will amount to anything.
Certainly not the
six hundred bales of
best alfalfa
cut
in my day.

:: Rhonda Buchanan Pray, in Blueline (24)