Wash (a poem)

Robert L. Temple

time for harvest
so fishing is over
until all the oats
are threshed
the potatoes dug

the big machinery
clanks across dry fields
dust rises to settle
become one with blown hair
down necks into ears
around eyes
where the wetness
reminds that mud
is nature’s state

end of the work day
splashes over the face
some features
all human again
others keep company
with dirt tawn strength
of getting to ends.