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The Harvest
by Gail Hamilton
We shared the changing seasons
Standing close and far apart
my father and myself.
Our early bonding to the land
And later factory life
Seemed a logical transition
From growing to refining.
Early on
The rubber boots and shovel
Standing guard by back screen door
Till water turn at midnight
When head gates opened wide
And water raced or trickled
Down fields of furtive furrows.
Then
Steele toed boots beside the bed
Sugar stained and beet pulp pungent.
Campaign and harvest, eight hour shifts
Metal lunch box and hard hat gear
Home from college at Christmastime
Nocturnal visits to Dad's domain
The Sugar Boiler Room
From outdoor frozen breath to inside steamy warmth
Up open cat walks, deafening noise,
Rumbling machinery, metal stairs and
Everywhere that permeating acrid smell of
Sugar in progress
Now
The factory doors are closed
farm has long been sold
Yet still my father tills the soil
When springtime warms the earth
And still he harvests and still he shares
And growth has been the harvest
And work produced the growth
And love provided reason
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