Nathan Martin Poet I do not know?

The Chronicles of Minor Men Part-2

pitchforks heavily leaned upon, 
puffy cumulus clouds drifting slowly
 across the summer sky, 
 parted by a wheather vain of
 a rooster crowing in the wind.
 
 bundles of hay rolled up bask in the heat, 
  like giant golden cantelupes in a melon field. 
  
beautiful children grow calist palms for iconographers
 to chisel and paint. 
 
 orothodox prayers are offered up. 
 scythes are swung to reap simple parables.

 along baltic dirt roads pebbles are scattered
 by combersome rusty old farming trucks
 with wooden rails. 

 seeds bounce off and fall through the cracks
 sprouting small communal agrarian gardens.

 hens are kept in small huts, 
they lay richly decorated gold leaf eggs, 

 for priest to carry over the shoulder's
 of the weary men at the eucharist.

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