Windrows, wind blows, haying in the sun.
Sweat drops, crickets hop. Piles raked one by one.
Quaint oratories and allegories the trees and limbs applaud.
Birds fly in endless sky as I sweep across the sod.
Young girl, big worlds, thoughts beyond her years.
Mercy's balm, a redeeming calm as clay brings forth sweet tears.
Striped land, rake in hand, combing the winding trail.
Singing songs, quoting Psalms, pondering Heaven and Hell.
In pastures vast, oh, sacred past; hours never spurned.
For no man knows among windrows the grace of God I learned.
~ Jill Noblit MacGregor
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