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Winter Wheat Our playthings were worn-out hammers And rusted 20-penny nails From our father's Canvas aprons. So we hammered The summer away, Sank our spikes home With ringing, mighty blows. Hammered the earth In crazy-quilt patterns, Nailed grass to ground, Steel to frontyard clay. Winter came Froze the thick turf Swelled beneath the surface, Heaved, and Popped up our bumper crop Of frosted steel. 20-penny nail heads Sparkling two inches tall In February bright sunshine. The only crop ever, To my memory, We had to harvest With a crowbar. —Garry Barker 70 ...
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