This hard-hoed soil’s ceding nothing now.
An early frost has taken this year’s crops,
and still the farmer, with unyielding brow,
stone-sets his jaw and bends to tend his plot.
There’s precious little left: a sheaf of wheat,
a single, pale, emaciated gourd.
He gathers what he can (it cannot be
enough) and, slowly rising, turns toward
home, eyes down but shoulders squared. He lifts
his nearly-empty hands and prays with rough
resolve: “We thank you, Lord, for these, Thy gifts,”
and then, again: “Lord, let it be enough.”
© 2022 Josh Bishop
Josh Bishop Writes 