Harvest

When a clean wind runs across the rows
and lifts the sweat off your back
and the corners of your face,
you can almost feel the worry rising
like it had its own wings, like it could catch
an updraft and spiral out of sight
until all your troubles were just a speck
against the summer blue.

Then the breeze dies, and your feet
are still on the dirt, hands dry with it,
and the leaves rustling
like the green money you don't have.