when August wheeled

    brought back to mind

    an alfalfa field

    where green windrows

    bleached¹ down to hay

    while storm clouds rose

    and rolled our way.

    With lighthearted strain

    in our pastoral agon

    we raced the rain

    with baler and wagon²，

    driving each other

    to hold the turn

    out of the weather

    and into the barn.

    A nostalgic pause

    claims we saved it all，

    but I‘ve known the loss

    of the lifelong haul；

    now gray concrete

    and electric light

    wear on my feet

    and dull my sight.

    So I keep asking，

    as I stand here，

    my cheek still basking³

    in that trick of air，

    would I live that life

    if I had the chance，

    or is it enough

    to have been there once？