The grass is crisply dry
The sun is beating down
Mid-summer paints the sky
The farmer stops to frown
His life is thus forsaken
Within the hands of fate
He seems to be mistaken
His refuge is quite late
The farmer’s hands are weary
He reaches to the stars
His burdened eyes are teary
As the drizzle stays afar
But then, the lightning flashes
And droplets start to pour
As thunder claps and crashes
The farmer grieves no more.

© 2006 – Jill Eisnaugle’s Poetry Collection