grassesI recently wrote about putting up hay in the summertime. When I was little, my job was to carry a Mason jar of ice water out to the men working in the field. I can still so clearly feel the heat of the day and the cool, slick jar n my hand, ice tinkling against the glass as I tiptoed through hay stubble.

Mom filled the jar with water and ice, but wouldn’t it be Romantic if I’d actually drawn the water from the well? Ah yes, I wrote a poem about that . . .


In June,
when nature’s bread oven
bakes ripe heads of grass
farmers take to the fields.
After day has drunk the dew,
men mount tractors
and ride summertime roads.
I dangle from an apple tree,

At noon I am sent to the cellar
where empty jars line shelves,
glimmer in the light of an open door.
I take one brimming with damp
to the well my father dug.
Men lift my sparkling gift
to labor seasoned foreheads,
cool their heat in satisfaction
of hand-dug cellar and well.

In June,
when days are sun-sodden, I remember
nights always follow difficult days
when cicadas sing and grass roots
grow deeper.