A Harvest of Love

A true story.

Most visitors were welcomed in this quiet, prairie town,
But no one hailed this guest when it circulated ‘round.
With indiscrimination, it touched friends and family too,
What horror! They were stricken by the dreaded Spanish ‘Flu.

Now Uncle George’s fam’ly, were, like the others, caught,
A son and three small children gone. With sorrow all were fraught,
As one by one he brought them, and prepared them tenderly,
With aching heart, he placed them ‘neath the lonely willow tree.

Then sadly turned, with younger son, and to their land they wheeled,
Where their crop of beets awaited, frozen in the field.
But as they drove along the road, some farmers came their way,
Each driver had a wagon load. A kindly word to say.

“Sure praying for you, George!” said one. Another shook his head.
A third reached out and gripped his hand then turned and looked ahead.
One by one the wagons passed, each full as those before,
George wiped his eyes, “I wish t’was ours all harvested and stored!”

A final wagon passed, a youngster stood up and he called,
Said, “That’s the last now, Uncle George! And everything is hauled!”
Old George, he wiped a tear and put an arm about his son.
Then sadly smiled and said, “I wish ‘twas our beets that were done.”

They rode a little further and finally came into their field,
Then stopped and stared as suddenly the truth was now revealed,
The tears they'd held inside were flowing freely down their cheeks.
Their crop had all been harvested. Every. Single. Beet.

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we three besought,
To try to make the week begin
With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?
So Jenny and Delores, we,
Have posted poems for you to see.
And now you've seen what we have brought . . .
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week's Thanksgiving, we'll be frank,

My friends and me will all give thanks!