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. the same as all the other days, grease the machine in all the hidden places until you know it'll run slick. Then you start the engine, feel every nut and bolt brace against the first surge of fuel. And maybe you feel like the old man who knows tonight is the last night he will have to climb into bed. Field past field, you think back trying to remember how good the first harvest day felt--how the heat, and wheat dust welcomed you like a mother's challenge to walk. Acre after acre, grain has bouquet'd into your throat, your steel cylinder gut digesting load after load--hours monogrammed inside this cab when you felt like a combine king, your country a kingdom stretched to the horizon's black-thread crease. More hours you were nothing --a wrench tightened instinct lifting and lowering the header, suggesting the machine faster and slower, internal sounds felt before heard, metal and rubber. Then you live it, the last round, a narrow swath where you've never been, tied down by a row of uncut corners, tokens from every round, leading to the road. And then it's over. Nothing left but stubble. The last uncut corner cut. A good friend gone. 
Greg German also submitted poems about The
1st Day of Harvest and Lunch Time. |
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