The stretches of paddy
lie in silence.
Dew covers them like a shield
a scenario with a difference.
The farmer relaxes at home
after months of toil
waiting for the designated day to come
praying nothing should spoil.
Thunder and lightning strike with force
more rain would ensure damage
he turns tense scared of the setbacks
the stalks droop, it looks strange.
The grains resemble gold
yellow and sparkling they dangle.
Once they start to fold
harvest could go on without a struggle.
That moment of bliss
reaping what you sow.
The man starts his work with a kiss
to the soil bending low.
The clouds come together
loiter sluggishly till noon.
For a while, panic unfolds. Harvest is almost done.
The paddy is heaped into rows.
The son of toil lets out a sigh.
Wipes his sweat,
tidies himself and fastens his belt.
His eyes turn moist.
He walks back home.