Perhaps it only happened once
that we missed the cotton candy,

the bingo tent, the fishing pond,
and the pie room, because

(as everyone knows) you have
to make hay when the sun is shining,

and so we stayed home that 4th,
bringing in loads of hay,

while up at the celebration,
the town kids wandered under

striped tents, drinking cool bottles
of root beer, taking a spin

at the cake walk, waiting
for the fireworks to begin—

but now it’s that 4th of July
I want—back at the farm again,

blue sky over the hayfield
and the red tractor and baler

swiveling along the green rows,
bales dropping at perfect intervals,

as if measuring out a happiness
we didn’t even know we had.