Summer I

Last summer
when the sweet cherries came into season,
we picked our fingers purple

pit spitting
bird ducking
cherry carrying
tongue turning

And later,
when the alfalfa was tall
and the sun beat down on your birthday,
I donned my long-sleeve shirt
to help you bale the hay that would feed the horses
and pay off the tractor

hope heaving
twine tossing
back breaking
song singing

So that, when we sat at the table
in the shade and breaked - braked -
broke bread together,

Our cups were full.