My poem, “Making Hay,” received 3rd place at the Oklahoma Writer’s Federation conference this past weekend. Inspired by my husband’s stories of cutting hay, I tried to write something that connected the field with the country supper table.
Here’s the poem:
The heat is a curtain of rippling tension
at the end of the field.
Yellow the sun,
the gloves you peel
from hands still cracked by baling wire and dry heat.
Walk through the steaming kitchen,
let the shower wash the day from you.
Come to “can” again.
Then sit at the table
where the fried chicken and cornbread
are as golden as the hay in the field.