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 tender
In the palm of their hands,
They will callous;
I know that now;
That is the work
Of the harvest season.
Once, things were given to me,
But now I provide for Naomi,
And there are joys in that—
The quiet behind the sheaves stacked high,
And the dark where I long for well-earned sleep.
Tomorrow, I return to the threshing floor;
I learn the value of grain.
Published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on November 30, 2019