Fruit ripe from the harvest, did not come this year.
The farmer did his best, but only reaped a tear.
His fields were all flooded, the rain wouldn’t stop.
The land like a riverbed, it could yield no crop.
He struggled through winter, with hardly a scrap.
Spring’s rain brought fear that his land was a trap.
He’d willed it to his son,
but could he still fight?
Tribulation had him undone, till the morning’s sunlight.

by Rita Jette

Other poems of RITA JETTE (2)

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