There upon my hand was a
Single wheel plow as I was
Plowing the field. And going along
With each stride as I was
Digging deep within the dirt
And my plow kept making
The dirt as I rip into as I
Went along. And break through
The exterior of the field
Mounting dirt starts to collect
As I went along with my plow
Digging with every deep step
Of it. And it made no more than
A gentle touch of simple screeching
Cry as it made a whisper of
It as I was plowing on by and why
Do I not feel so acolimiated
To say at aleast that I am working
On a hot midsummers day
Such as this. As the plow connects
To the dirt with a long whisper
Of a gentle touch to it.
And so the wheel keeps turning
Whispering as it digs deep
Into the dirt with my plow that
Has a little digger that is attached
To it on the back to make
It easy for it to work so I to take
And make it so. Where the
mounted dirt is where it goes to stay
And where the dirt will soon
Be made into a field of as I step
With my plow in hand still
Where I’ll be putting it back in place
Of where it can repill. And I
Left the mount to make it’s work.
In the field

© The realist