Sonnet: In Iowa

In Iowa where sadness is a crop

The men farm as their fathers did before,

Diligent toil, wanting of break and stop

In golden fields ocher sky melts over.

When a flame of wind brings her caring drought

Abandoned threshers rust in arid fields,

And pools of drying creeks catch fleeting trout

—Cheerful memories youthful love annealed.

Capricious women leave like season’s dearth,

Timeless bliss—only a harvest halted,

Fresh rain restores streams and infertile earth,

Cleansing ground which joyful tears had salted.

Then farmers bury fish where land dried up,
In Iowa where sadness is a crop.