By Morning Light
By John Sales
By morning’s light, a farmer’s plight, work before the dawn.
A coffee cup, filled plum up, dew is on the lawn.
A rooster shouts, the dogs they bout, a cat lets out a yawn.
A pair of gloves, an old straw hat, path down by the barn.
The day will start, where last one will end, clock is not needed,
hands left to spin.
The tractor seat’s cold, paint no longer bold, tires are worn and thin.
Gone are the days, lost in his ways, fence he forgot to mend.
The engine wakes up, his spirit takes sup, drinking the field’s end.
Plow is all bright, dirt clods take flight, face shoots out a grin.
The day is now dawn, when others will wake, gone is the reason,
the jobs they did take.
But the farmer he laughs, his face full of dust,
it’s not a job, life’s not a bust.
The seeds are so small, yet grow will they all,
golden strands, waves so tall.
The field now bears, the scars of his tread,
the reason he works,
the world needs bread.
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