12.29.2009

The Picker

Bent from the waist,
sun beats yellow
into his shirt,
sears along his arms.

Through his legs
we see rows
of tomato seedlings,
dirt to the horizon
and blue sky,

and his hat round
with its black band
hangs in the sky
midway to heaven.

:: CB Follett, in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review #2 (1993)

1 comment: