The road is uneven.
The girth of time
between evening and daylight.
Life outbound or coming home,
these black buggies of prayer,
of dedication,
of soil and sweat and family.
Life tipped by its tasks,
but straight and strong.
Who holds the reins?
The intense eyes following the road.
The black and white of faith.
Where is the farm
that comes out of the earth ahead?
What is planted in the fields?
Love of the seasons.
The fresh taste of water.
Rain falling in the dusk.
A cocoon with the metamorphosis
of a heart inside it,
struggling with the labor of existence,
and a goal in the spirit
that looks at the fields.
The buggy carries them,
singly or together,
man, woman, child, or family.
Judge not the frail beauty
of the buggy,
but the intent moving inside it,
and listen to its laughter,
and taste its tears.