Arts & Letters A Farmer’s Handprint

By Alessandra Angela C. Gomez

The sun hasn’t been visiting as a deliverance of hope

But a new ounce of sweat awaits to touch the ground. If only the hands of the clock could hastily turn To when the rain washes off traces of turmoil in the mud.

They plant to reciprocate in due time for a harvest, To break free from the chains of soaring prices. But foreign roots have made their way to the local surface, Taking hold of the hands who sought to supply the next market.

A worker rides on top of a hill of stocks painted red, Wheeled in for the day to feed and nourish the public. The seller then beamed at the great amount of progress As the worker hid a faint smile from the farm’s losses.

His companions sit and wait for the return of their lasses, But next to crops, wiped out by a storm’s uppercut. In a race to climb above the treetop of demand, Is a farmer who carries his life to lift someone else’s.