Greg German, Glen ElderGreg German submitted a sequence of 10 harvest poems, three of which are included on these pages. The poems follow a young boy, his father, and grandfather through their own personal harvests. Currently a resident of Kansas City, Kansas, German wrote about his experiences on the family farm near Glen Elder. it appears like an old friend at the door. Sun warmed fields, crisp waves of wheat, swell and ripple. Ripe grain rattles applause to its own arrival. Pleasured with attention, the combine waits. We pace around it, work ourselves into sync. Drive belts are slapped for tightness. Hard to reach zerks found and greased-- fresh oil rechecked. Dad starts the engine. Every nut and bolt shakes with the first rush of fuel. Smoke, black diesel, spot-stains the air. Grandpa is young again. Crawling, the machine tastes the crop - the first bit of bread. Dry as crust, chaff and wheat dust sparkle behind the machine. My brother and I wade knee-deep into the field. We splash in the wake of fresh-cut stubble-- explore handfuls of straw, search the ground for leftovers. Soon we will all be running. 
Greg German also submitted poems about Lunch
Time and The Last Day of Harvest. |
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