A farmer's only wish.

His crimson tractor blazes through 
These fields: a wisp, a wind, a wildfire.
Its rolling teeth grind the 
Dirt into insignificance. 

He reluctantly sits atop the monstrosity 
Attempting to master the instrument, but
He is yoked to these seats, and his labor 
Refuses to compromise or negotiate. 

Thus he carries his wearied
Sleep-deprived body toward the stables, food
Lacking, the bliss of peaceful rest 
Absent, a sense of sanity nowhere. 

For these asinine procedures he
Toils one through nine, nine to 
One, desiring some time for leisure, 
Sick of active participation. 

But that is his only option – an 
Eternity compacted into a minute,
New tasks supplanting old tasks, barely 
Able to sustain a harvest. 

He wants to don a straw hat.
Wants to recline beneath the wheat, 
To cherish a moment of quiescence,
Paper and pen in hand… steadily churning out 

Beautiful poetry.