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Poem

This year the farmers are celebrating
the greatest full moon harvest 
they ever had in the past hundred years
with a special field they sowed
to be reaped before the arrival of winter,
in the meantime, off in the distance
the church bell rings by way of a clapper 
who strikes the bell with a farmer's hammer 
signaling to the villagers it's time for work 
they all line up in procession 
with grit and determination
with weather beaten faces 
turned into rawhide skin,   
with shovels over their shoulders 
they march to the beets and to the yams 
to the fields loaded with rich phosphorus deposits 
that washes down from the hills into streams 
that irrigate the crops into super giant
beets and yams the size of watermelons  
just bulging out of the rich soil,
the farmers came to dig and dig. 
They worked fast and furiously
to beat the first frost digging reaping 
and piling up the yams and the beets 
into several mountain peaks of yellows and purple

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