when August wheeled
brought back to mind
an alfalfa field
where green windrows
bleached down to hay
while storm clouds rose
and rolled our way.
With lighthearted strain
in our pastoral agon
we raced the rain
with baler and wagon，
driving each other
to hold the turn
out of the weather
and into the barn.
A nostalgic pause
claims we saved it all，
but I‘ve known the loss
of the lifelong haul；
now gray concrete
and electric light
wear on my feet
and dull my sight.
So I keep asking，
as I stand here，
my cheek still basking
in that trick of air，
would I live that life
if I had the chance，
or is it enough
to have been there once？
