Too late a spring delayed the corn
that grows in summer’s heat;
too soon a frost has killed the crops
before they’re ripe with meat.
Too late a rain has bogged us down
in sinking, flooded fields;
too soon a gleaning of flesh too moist
has crushed the fragile yield.
Too wet to store, too much to dry
and all the work’s a waste:
The years of empty hope and toil
have left a bitter taste.
But changing fates is not a choice,
and there is no place to roam:
I’ll sow again, I’ll reap again,
because this is our home.