A Farmer’s Confession Regarding the Sharecropper’s Daughter


  • James E. Olson PhD,

  • Jonathan Singer MD

  • Supervising Editor: Brian Zink MD.

inline image

He plowed with affectioned misery with my heifer

While planting the slumbering winter wheat,

Doing what was proper and righteous in my eye.

With his second going forth as a crop rotator

He subdued the summer’s furnace of afflictions

With minimal sprinkling from my attentive feet.

Year three, without my hand he smote bended reeds

With a renouncing scythe of full-blossomed skills.

As he neared the limit of what I could teach

I should have invited him to feast at my table.

Instead, when his own flesh and blood was furrowed

And he asked me to apply the wealth in my silo,

I wilted, asking plastics to provide her latticework.

As a windless preceptor, I was a storehouse of nothing.