June. Sun. The first day for wearing grass-bale gloves.
The hay is flowing west, sad teary-eyed
Under forest’s farewell breath of blessing.
I waltz with rakes, alfalfa does aerials.
Clover sways to the music, free, and swinging
Her violet skirts, while the mourning dove cries merrily.
Sleeping bales are dreaming on their stubbled bed.
The perfect ones to be cut apart, a sacrifice, and broken
Bales I rattle, scatter, rip, and shake—back onto the queue, to be gift-wrapped.
Horses will gather, under the tree, and open an intertwined gift
With gratefulness, lifting out clover, letting her dance, sing one last time, an artist
Painting her sunflowers, like Picasso never could.