Summer Fields

February heat comes too early.
The fields turn brown
And men with bent backs
Harvest the premature
Golden grains
of rice
March should have come
But it didn't.
The grasses wilt, the dust roams around
The wheels of the hauling tractor
Sounds the start
Of another season
Covered eyes and noses
And the silence of the mouth.

It is time to keep memories.
It is this time of the year when sadness goes away.
Another one bites the dust
So to say.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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