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The
sun bears down in full force
it radiates and penetrates
the sore limbs of sunburned men
who labor in the fields
sweat pours from their brows
the work exhausting
as hunched men pick the harvest
when the work is done
they will find some shade
and recover from the blazing sun
the farm's crop is in
and the farm settles to a slower pace
awaiting the next season
hard physical work still exists
but only for a few
most work at desks or at computers
and never think about
the hot sweaty labor
that still goes on
the labor most will not do
that has long been bred out of them
and who will never know
the satisfaction of sweat
or the feel of dirt between their fingers
one day a robot will pick the crops
by then we will have lost our last tie
to the land
and we will no longer know
the gratification of physical labor
no more songs will be sung
among those who swung the scythe
or filled the sack
as they followed the row
toward the setting sun
long gone will be
those honest earnest people
our ancestors
salt of the earth.
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