It’s almost baseball season, almost spring.
I think of my grandmother Mabel at 94 and in winter. Her children in fall and mine back in spring.
Which puts me in summer. In the heat and toil of work. Goal-set against the failure of the growing crops. Hoping desperation won’t drop from the sky or sweep from the horizon.
On this day and all the rest,
may the yields rise, prices be fair,
and gentle rains prevail.