Yin with Yang

The seeds that grow,
the old pigmented hand
can put asunder,
to nourish
or nurture not; to feed or forget.

The old mans hands have their task ahead.

Father Nature
is rubbing seeds and husk
between his old pigmented hands
with thickened gnarled fingers
painful but focused.

Years of toil
leave callouses on knuckles
nails curve hard; eagles claws
earth underneath;they are never cleaned.
No point. Dirt returns relentless.
His bent bones grate,
he blows seeds to the wind
raspberry lips and rasping lungs,
pause only to wheeze
and coughing a little in the dry dust.
A thousand light harvesters scatter,
flutter to fertile soil.
The fertile soil, turned, deep, filled with
life blood and centuries bone meal.

He wears a hat. It has not protected his face,
filled with lines; deep crevices mark
the years across his brow.

Something else

Sitting on a old wood crate
a manly fashion, wearing a dark dress.
She laughs freely in earthy cracked tones
pulling the cork from a bottle
of ripe luscious red.

They take bread and cheese;
talk about the past, until
a light rain falls soft against their faces.
It softens their weathered,
leathered skin, a little.
They walk slowly home,
arm in arm, bent with
joints cracking and jovial banter,
steadfast, satisfied.
The evening bathes them,
a soft-focus yellow light,
a glimmering veil to the dim eye.
And they both agree,

Today, the work is done.