Acres, twenty
Six mouths to feed.
I plow and harrow, seed interred
The kids, too small to aid
Wife weak, in flesh and will.
Yet I am hard, sun-tempered.

‘12 was bad
Sandy, then Irene
My fields are a lake
And my dreams cadavered

Autumn ensues.
Alms proffered, none taken
My aim falters not,
felled venison provides

The spring, new dreams
And want shall fade.
For now…

By Robert McGrogan
Westtown NY