Too late a spring delayed the corn

that grows in summer’s heat;

too soon a frost has killed the crops

before they’re ripe with meat.

Too late a rain has bogged us down

in sinking, flooded fields;

too soon a gleaning of flesh too moist

has crushed the fragile yield.

Too wet to store, too much to dry

and all the work’s a waste:

The years of empty hope and toil

have left a bitter taste.

But changing fates is not a choice,

and there is no place to roam:

I’ll sow again, I’ll reap again,

because this is our home.