Thundering clouds, wanting to flaunt
Their watery wares
Taunted the poor farmer bowed down under cares.
Had the Ides of March again come to haunt him?
‘Let the mercury drop, but not my crop,’
He beseeched, remembering last year’s hailstones
Stifling his moans, lo and behold!
The clouds were suddenly tinged in gold!
The Ides of March had come and gone!
In his shriveled heart, a new hope was born.
He sprang up with a whoop of joy
In his arms he scooped his two year old boy
And in the air, hurled.
Gurgling happily, he came back into his fold
His dry, straggly hair tinged in gold.
The dust motes danced
By Midas Touched
Entranced, the sun now entered the farmer’s soul
The happy robin burst into song on the grassy knoll.
The clouds lost their thunder, could no more mock
There was spring in the air and spring in his walk.