Fatigue undresses our cheeks,
our boots thhh-lucking through mud like molasses.
You’ve sweat already through your shirt this morning
and there is no ice for the tea.  

The normal pacing of time has been lost
to the shaking of an unbalanced spin cycle.
All the flags are upside down
and I grow pale in the heat-  
     -a bad sign  

The rows of this field seem endless,
didn’t we pull the same weeds yesterday?
Waiting on the seeds of better angels to sprout,
to give them what chance we can.  

Maybe barefoot is better than boots, I offer.
Perhaps we should bow down instead of trample,
sing soft to the seeds that will feed us,
ask forgiveness of the holy soil.  

Rest awhile in the shade,
I will mend you a fresh, clean shirt, make ice for the tea.
Rest, and remember how to pray.
I watch a bird, wide-winged, ascending-  
     -a good sign