Calloused those hands,
like grey dried wood,
etched with the labor of years,
tilling earth and feeding crops with tears,
that forever upheld their lives.
A furrowed brow, heavy
the burden of life’s harsh resolves,
and nature’s whims the loss and wins of produce,
as seasons turn and work discerns
the plight of every yield.
How I hope for these souls,
invested in earth, their blood its very nutrient,
and all those years of loss and poverty,
earned back their resilience and stoic hearts,
unmoved from the start.
And so they endure,
scraping by each season, for their reasons,
hoping for weather to smile upon their fields,
and bringing home the yields so wanted
in their survival.
May God smile upon these simple folk,
that feed us, spare us the blood and tears,
so that our plates are full,
and may they be blessed
for their downright endurance:
hearts of the land.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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