SERIES

“The Harvest” is a memory of the summer sun burning high.
Not as hardship, but as part of life itself.

In “The Harvest” I see a figure bent among the golden wheat.
Hands steady. Eyes focused.
As if speaking softly with the earth.

The sickle moves in rhythm, almost musical.
A pulse connecting human and soil.

Each stalk that falls is born of patience and sweat.
There is no rush here.
Only the quiet knowing that reward comes when it is earned.

These moments may seem distant now.
Yet they remain within us.
A memory of when work had depth, simplicity, and dignity.