Harvested at peak and put away,

Cribbed safe and stored until

The price rises in the need of winter.

Hopefully up, but held too long

The crop will miss the high price —

For no one wants moldy old corn.

Even the cattle spit it out.

The good farmer harvests in the sunshine,

The poor farmer gets distracted,

Goes fishing on sunny days, and then

Late on a cold rainy day in late November

Pulls his tractor into the muddy field.

Cornstalks bent by the October rain,

Ears down too close to the ground

For the corn picker to glean.

The lazy farmer now hurries, trying

To make up squandered time,

Spinning his wheels, spinning to a stop,

He blames the weather, when it was he

Who wasted the warm spring rain,

Free summer sun, life wanting to live.

All looks lost, is lost

When his neighbor comes.

The good farmer risks his tractor —

Hitches — cranks — pulls

The helpless farmer out of his mess.

They finish the work together taking

What corn they can. The muddy farmer

Sells it all wet and heavy for a down price —

He needs the money now.

The corn crib spends the winter empty

Holding nothing but drifting snow,

Waiting for God alone,

To do all the neglected work next year,

Knowing his farmer may not change,

Hoping he might see the worth

Of filling his soul with golden corn.

It seems like eternity, the wait every season,

And it is.