I follow windrows as they curve
around the field's geometry.
Rows of cut red clover and timothy
lie yet unsquared.

Driving our ancient tractor, I'm satisfied
with a perfect turn, the roller coaster rush
of throttling up over ruts.
Our finances are precarious
as the glue holding together my glasses.
Still, the conjunction of deep blue and green
plus birdsong, equals peace.

My sons lift bales from the field
a smooth ballet of strength
that plays like baling twine
unrolling steadily through the day.
My daughter stacks teetering rectangles
as her father pulls the wagon,
head turned watchfully.
Afternoon light shines in their hair.
They call to one another, laughing as they work
voices held aloft as chaff's long glittering.

Even swallowing this day
I couldn't feel more whole.
Hay piles up in the barn's dark recesses
like stored sunlight.  
 

This poem first appeared in Atlanta Review. 
Used here with the author's permission.