The Giving Earth

The Giving Earth

There never was a minute to waste,

Nor rushing through life like those in haste.

Each day was a purposefully planned event,

With sunshine or rain enjoying the happiness sent.

From snakes on the road to catching toads,

We, brothers, united using secret codes.

Towering trees and muddy ditches plenty,

We climbed and splattered ‘til the day was empty.

Waves of ripened corn ready to be shucked,

Waiting row upon row, every ear to be plucked.

Woolly worms, caterpillars we were told,

Eating the kernels, some skilled at predicting the snow.

Stringing beans, a past-time for idle fingers many,

Once the fields were empty, not one making a penny.

Pumpkins ripe, bright orange, harvest’s delight,

Stored away quickly, some kept out in sight.

Boiling water, kettles, over-sized stock pots,

Mama yelled keep away they’re hot.

Slicing and cutting and canning our food,

Called in from play to share her thankful mood.

I hear the echoes of times gone by,

Canning beans, corn, and threshing of rye.

Those times weren’t for those reluctant to work.

For the rewards were many growing things in the dirt.

Newly plowed earth, a scent I still remember,

Warm clods of dirt to be busted or plowed under.

Line upon line of a newly plowed number

Waiting for new seeds, now laying somber.

Honesty and purity the earth speaks of,

Giving and fulfilling its promises of love.

My brothers and I, playtime and harvest,

Childhood duties were done right after breakfast.

Summer’s sun, autumn’s splashes of color,

Finished up their duties for those with blue collars.

And, as with each harvest’s passing,

Cellars and closets were used for the stashing.

For: Astrid