Before the wheat
before the masons and the din
at a place called Paint Crick
black hair flying
They came each day to watch the red hair
of the man who was plowing their existance
into the soil with each pass of the horses.
They have now reaped what others have sown.
We too may be the ones to watch
Existence plowed into the dirt we call home.
— Libeth Tempero
The Coop: A Poetry Cooperative 