The hay stacks are taller,
Than the cob-filled maize giants,
And outside a barn, that looks
Almost like the backdrop of American Gothic,
Little calves and woolen sheep
Can be seen sleeping on straw, and chicken
Clucking like mad sensing it is feeding time,
Making the ambiance, like a Bethlehem barn,
Where a little Jewish infant opened his sleepy eyes
For the first time, while reminding us,
That McDonald, before making it big
As a fast food giant, was just a plain old nursery rhyme
With repertoires of animal sounds.
In this landscape of the American south,
You find the farmers, making
An honest living, count. A life spent on 4AM
Wake-up calls, long vigils on acreages,
Driving massive tractors, walking in water-proof boots
And packing the grain harvest inside silos.
Grassroot ensembles that bring
A stuffed turkey and cranberry sauce to the dinner table,
Every last Thursday of November,
To commemorate the pilgrims in Plymouth.
And in this farming tradition,
Alfalfa fodder transforms to pumpkin pie,
While the pitchfork on American Gothic,
Morphs to a candelabra on a table,
Lighting the thanksgiving table
Celebrating the windfalls of the field,
That trickles down to a spread of potluck.
Human touch, which like Midas, turns peduncles
To aurum each August. And in these
Times of ubiquitous hallelujah, you find stuffed
Silos, turkeys and tummies, which like
The udders of a prized farm cow, are
Packed to the brim.