by LaVern Spencer McCarthy
We pray for a passing cloud,
but the sun beats down in yellow spite.
I plant seedlings, row after row.
My brown-eyed helper follows, grumbling,
douses each tiny promise
with water from a silver pail.
He hates the work, grouses that
he should have gone
to computer school instead.
There are no hellish days
in a truck garden there.
He needs a siesta
beneath the cottonwood tree,
a sweating jug of cold lemonade nearby.
Rewards seem lost in the whirl
of blowing dust and heat.
Dreams spiral into nowhere
until those autumn days
when we harvest our treasures—
bushels of gold from brown earth,
carrots to be sold at Farmer’s Market.
© LaVern Spencer McCarthy All rights reserved.
Previously published in A Galaxy of Verse