harvest time

The grist of labor turns;
Love’s hope burns
An arc around the mill.
Some wheat may spill
From time to time
And tragic rhyme
Is dusted on the floor.
Pay no heed, for at the door
Are workmen and a wagon.
They pause to drink the harvest flagon.
They laugh, and stack their wain with flour
And pay us in an hour
The travail of a fortnight;
And joy will set our aches aright.
What we shall make is greater than our loss;
What we shall reap is greater than the cost.

© 1994, Joel Helbling. All rights reserved.

Now see “The Making of ‘Harvest Time’” in my Pictures of Everything photo blog.