November’s poem
“The Nomad Harvesters,” by Marie De L. Welch:
I came by this in Carey McWilliams’s book, Factories in the Field: The Story of Migratory Farm Labor in California.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The nomads had been the followers of flocks and herds,
Or the wilder men, the hunters, the raiders.
The harvesters had been the men of homes.
But ours is a land of nomad harvesters.
They till no ground, take no rest, are homed nowhere.
Travel with the warmth, rest in the warmth never;
Pick lettuce in the green season in the flats by the sea.
Lean, follow the ripening, homeless, send the harvest home;
Pick cherries in the amber vallies in tenderest summer.
Rest nowhere, share in no harvest;
Pick grapes in the red vineyards in the low blue hills.
Camp in the ditches at the end of beauty.
They are a great band, they move in thousands;
Move and pause and move on.
They turn to the ripening, follow the peaks of seasons,
Gather the fruit and leave it and move on.
Ours is a land of nomad harvesters,
Men of no root, no ground, no house, no rest;
They follow the ripening, gather the ripeness,
Rest never, ripen never,
Move and pause and move on.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
I came by this in Carey McWilliams’s book, Factories in the Field: The Story of Migratory Farm Labor in California.