Any Harvest by Hank Blackwell
Any Harvest
by Hank Blackwell
I walk the remote hills
under my hat,
shaded from
a piercing summer sun.
Dust rises with each footstep
over dry mounds
of gray cheatgrass
waiting for rain.
I am alone here,
a mixed blessing…
complete freedom
fills one pocket,
the other remains empty…
I stay busy –
building, repairing
coaxing the baked earth
and myself
not to die…
waiting, impatiently,
for a harvest
of any kind….