POETRY

It is important,
it tills the land,
turning earth into promise.

The farmer grips it at dawn,
using it to clear the stubborn weeds
that threaten the harvest.

Mother bends with it in hand,
shaping ridges for sweet potatoes,
feeding the future with quiet strength.

Father drives it into the soil,
digging pits with steady resolve,
laying foundations unseen.

It serves without complaint,
from sunrise to fading light,
faithful in every season.

Yet when the work is done,
after its remarkable labor,
it is laid aside,

and forgotten.

Hie there! How do you feel about this poem? Kindly share with me.