The sun,

Her warm arms persistent even in the waking hours,

Drying away any morning dew,

Will soon be beating ferociously

Upon our backs.

Early you rise, only if delicate sleep, the sweet

Luxury that you cannot always afford

Swept over you the night before.

I too wake, with you allowing me more

Rest than you should. Guilt

Is upon me. You work exceptionally hard

During the long summer days-weeks-months.

Never ending.

My Father.

Daddy to me, Husband to my mother,

Son of my Grandfather.

Neighbor, Friend, Brother.

Michael, a name of Hebrew origin

Meaning like God, and also being

The patron saint of soldiers, is my own protector.

My teacher.

My father.

Upon arrival at the first field of my day-

I am unable to decipher

Where your days end or start, they run

Together like the bleeding pigments in a case

Of watercolors- I slip

My dry, white sock clad feet into stiff, cold

Rubber boots still wet from previous use.

You grasp your shovel; I mimic you. To learn

I watch you.


The ditch bank our home for the day, we walk

Checking for holes that deplete the water

Level necessary to sustain five siphon tubes.

Reaching our destination you gather three I gather two

And we move them down.

We fill the next five spaces, moving quickly

I do as you do.

Dunk, fill, fold the flap, toss.


Dunk, fill, fold the flap, toss.


Dunk, fill, fold the flap, toss.

Victory! One down, one to go.

You say I move too slowly, I say

I still am learning. You finish for me.

Next field.


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