American Gothic

Weathered as the barn behind them,
hard-eyed and narrow, this pair
has a history that never needs to be spoken—
all the bad harvests, floods, ill fortune.
A few sparks shielded between their palms.
What little they own they built themselves.
No patience for roses. When they look
at the golden fields, they see only
what those sheaves will buy—a new roof,
some boots, a mule. If they could speak,
they would say we must wrestle this angel,
the earth, until it yields, must take what we can
before the storm comes, before we return to dust.