Hay in Verses

Hay in Verses


One day of dry sun

farmers cut the hay, let

it lie in tufts and rows.


Before the tedding

to fluff and better dry,

more rain and mist


so thick it hangs gray

curtains between the fence

and antique hay rake.


Hot weather tomorrow,

forecasters publish prediction

not saying dry or sweat wet.


So will the bailer roll

a ton or more for winter

or wait and hope


for day after tomorrow?



What about that hay rake

rusty, stationary, a decoration

in my view of the vacant pasture?


A dump rake my Dad

pulled behind his 1936 John Deere

that, day before, side-delivered

thick timothy and clover.


He pulled a rope to lift the tines

every few yards or so

making piles to be pitchforked

onto a wagon or a farm truck

driven bumpy through the field


mown to feed his heifers,

to store in the ramshackle barn

to prove his farm intentions


before war and babies sent

him to the mill, off land

he bought with higher hopes.


We adapt, generation

to generation,

not ready to give up


growing hay, even if

we sell it off and out of town

or beg some other farmer


to mow each year, to keep

away invading thistles

and alders.

What are you looking for?