Providing for Naomi
I stand on the threshing floor,
In the busy harvest season.
Seed runs through my fingers like water,
Yellow air burns my eyes, and dust
Gathers at my feet. I earned an ephah of barley in a day—
It is mine, and I take it home to her.
It did not come easy; She praises me
for my work, and I smile.
I am proud of my gleaning. I search for the meaning of these small pieces,
Noting the arch of a worker’s back just before
Striking dry barley,
Noting the blisters bloody and