Warm Summer Day

I watched again
thw rough round cobs,
newly shorn of their gold
by me, turning the clanking
crank machine.

It was good on the farm,
in the August summer sun.
with acrobatic flies
whining through the moted air.

I ran my hands
through the Midas pile,
pushed them down
and with fingers raised,
lifted to spill cascades 
to the waiting pail.

I tugged the overfull burdon along,
and walked the crooked marching
steps to miss 
the worst of barnyard hazards
there on the worn way
to the pen of muddy pigs,
smelling too sweet for candy.

I fulled again the wooden trough
and stepped quickly back,
a good boy,
feeding good pigs
on a long ago farm
in the August summer sun.