Making Hay

The sun warms greenish-yellow cylinders

of silage, their sisters wrapped and stacked

in plastic. Cut, tedded, raked into windrows

then baled. They dot the land like giant jelly

rolls, cooled on freshly groomed fields. Haymaking

spins gold from alfalfa and grass, makes winter

chow for cattle. I once had a boyfriend who baled

all summer, arranged neat cubes in Quonsets,

his arms muscled from moving them around.

He took me on hayrides. Straw rides, really.

the tufts poked us from behind while we passed

a flask. He held me close under soft blankets.

These larger, round bales await a tractor

to move them. Some are left outside, outer

layers sacrificed to the rain and snow. Weathered,

like me, and no longer moved by young men.

Published in Tipton Poetry Journal Issue 66 Fall 2025