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