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Poetry from The Last Day of Harvest, by Greg German
Kansas farm & rural themed poetry and personal essays.
All writing, poetry & essays in this website - Copyright © by Greg German, 2019 |
Harvest Selections
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The 1st Day Of Harvest
Anticipated like Christmas, it appears like an old friend at the door. Sun warmed waves of wheat, acres of ripe grain swell and ripple, rattle applause with the wind. Poised, the combine waits, hungry for work. We tinker around the machine—slap drive belts for tightness, search for missed zerks not yet greased. Sieves and screens are aligned, sickle teeth re-inspected. Oil levels are checked again. Pliers fall into pockets. Dad starts the engine. Every nut and bolt shakes with the first rush of fuel. Smoke, black diesel, spot-stains the air. Crawling, the combine tastes the crop, harvests its first bite of bread. Dry as crust, chaff and wheat dust sparkle around us. Knee-deep in the warm wake of fresh-cut stubble, my brother and I wade into the field. The day’s heat spills over our backs as we explore handfuls of straw, search the ground for leftovers. Young again, Grandpa watches the combine carve faster into the shimmer of uncut wheat. Soon, we will all be running. |
A Tired Farmer Goes To Town
Fifth day A locally scattered thundershower comes through on a full stoked locomotive wind, and slams past his house. He gets out of bed to watch, and stands there in the storm's confused reflection, more a shadow than a man. Raindrops. big as boots, kick at the windows. Then it's over. The farmer can't sleep. At first light he gets in his pick-up and goes to look at his land. The sun rides up on a clear sky, a shiny spot on a porcelain plate. An eye-batting breeze flirts with the damp flour scent of a delayed harvest. At the 5-mile corner the farmer knows that he has drawn out of a full-house. He looks at his field like it was never there. When hail comes, size don't matter. Five minutes of the pea-sized stuff is all it takes to iron a wheat field flat. He is tired and considers never going home. At the restaurant, some men are not tired at all. Conversation spills across the contour of damage. To stop the erosion, they pull their best jokes out of their pockets and plant them between cups of coffee. Before noon the farmer antes, and goes back into his country. He greases his combine and enjoys the dust. Originally Published in Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4 |
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An Old Farmer Walks With Sundown
"His thinking is clear, even from where I sit." 8:55p.m., 6th day Marooned with age Grandpa drifts across the field, his boots deep in stubble, each step deliberate. Behind him waves of years swell up and break, shower him with the withered glitter of some old day's recollection. The sun dissolves. Evening gathers around him, content. A sentinel, he watches us work. Our machines lope across the field. Whirlwinds of dust and chaff shaken freshly from cut wheat rise up, twist into shapes of dead horses, old tractors, and tired men’s faces. Each harvest is his last. Originally Published in Mid America Review, 2002, V.3, N.2, |
From The Wheat Trucker’s Seat
Most trips I make alone. A slow haul charted along a rough, dirt road route toward town. A pilgrimage---my truck loaded too heavy with wheat. Dust sails billow from beneath my tires, push me across a broad country table. Waves of yellow-varnished fields sway in harvest ripe rhythm. Others rest. Dried remains from a combine’s wake, cut stubble calm. Saturated with summer, heat crowds the cab; sweat drains down my back. At the five mile corner my foot saddles the clutch. My arm stretches deep into the transmission. Gears juggle. Strained, second blends into third. Third relaxes into fourth. Inlaid on a warm wind, the triple thrill trill of an unseen meadowlark courses through open windows. Chaff swirls, twists, floats from the floorboard and flirts around my face. One fly side-steps with monotony across the dash. On the coast, my Mecca. Elevators. Tall pillared monuments, shimmer like ghosts. I meet the red Chevy. The gray Dodge, the yellow Ford---faces blurred behind bug blotched windshields. We always wave ---the cowboy, the green scarfed woman, the guy with the Cargill cap, the shirtless kid. Cargo dumped, late for more, they drive panic-fast. In the middle of fields combine drivers wait for their first far glimpse of a dusty, rattle-bounced blur shaped by an empty truck. Straw surrenders. Grain churns into wheat bins almost full. In town, over-filled trucks line the streets, bumper to bumper, linked in over-heated homage. The elevator towers above us---an idol we wait our turn to visit, deliver our families' treasure to the gods. Trapped, I sit here in a hurry, full of everything but time. Originally Published in KC Show & Tell, 2000, Anthology |
The Last Day Of Harvest
You climb up and check the oil
same as all the other days,
grease the machine in all the hidden
places until you know
it'll run slick.
Then you start the engine,
feel every nut and bolt
brace against the first surge
of fuel. And maybe
you feel like the old man
who knows tonight is the last night
he will have to climb into bed. Field
past field, you think
back trying to remember
how good the first harvest day
felt---how the heat,
and wheat dust welcomed you
like a mother's challenge
to walk. Acre after acre, grain
has bouquet'd into your throat,
your steel cylinder gut
digesting load after load---hours
monogrammed inside this cab
when you felt like a combine king,
your country a kingdom stretched
to the horizon's black-thread
crease. More hours you were nothing
---a wrench tightened instinct
lifting and lowering
the header, suggesting the machine
faster and slower, internal sounds
felt before heard, metal and rubber.
Then you live it,
the last round, a narrow swath
where you've never been, tied down
by a row of uncut corners,
tokens from every round,
leading to the road.
And then it's over.
Nothing left but stubble.
The last uncut corner
cut. A good friend gone.
Originally Published in Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4
You climb up and check the oil
same as all the other days,
grease the machine in all the hidden
places until you know
it'll run slick.
Then you start the engine,
feel every nut and bolt
brace against the first surge
of fuel. And maybe
you feel like the old man
who knows tonight is the last night
he will have to climb into bed. Field
past field, you think
back trying to remember
how good the first harvest day
felt---how the heat,
and wheat dust welcomed you
like a mother's challenge
to walk. Acre after acre, grain
has bouquet'd into your throat,
your steel cylinder gut
digesting load after load---hours
monogrammed inside this cab
when you felt like a combine king,
your country a kingdom stretched
to the horizon's black-thread
crease. More hours you were nothing
---a wrench tightened instinct
lifting and lowering
the header, suggesting the machine
faster and slower, internal sounds
felt before heard, metal and rubber.
Then you live it,
the last round, a narrow swath
where you've never been, tied down
by a row of uncut corners,
tokens from every round,
leading to the road.
And then it's over.
Nothing left but stubble.
The last uncut corner
cut. A good friend gone.
Originally Published in Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4
