The piece of prose you've—hopefully—just read has been pseudo-grafted here into poetic form because I'm on a poetic high at the moment without really having a defined place to defecate.
I think, oddly, this version's actually clearer in what it means. Enjoy, I suppose.
She stands beneath the molten sky
With sweat like dew upon her coat
Stands on a hill ‘midst fields of oat
Or are they wheat? Or are they rye?
No matter, for the sunlight scattered
Patters down like drops of rain
Refrained, the same is not the same
But nothing’s changed, no, nothing’s changed
How could she know which way to go
When knowing shows too many roads?
The crows of woe crow out their goads
But still, she holds—Oh still!—She holds!
And guards the fields from being meal
With scarecrow Jimbo by her side
Teal eyes reveal naught else abides
She sighs, and knows not what to feel
Hers is the choice and hers the voice
That makes her stay till wheat makes hay
Through dark and day, she does not cave
But braves away the long divorce
The bond that broke ‘neath fire and smoke
When night eternal owned the sky
That’s why she sighs and guards the rye
Or was it wheat? Or was it oat?
No matter: batter down the doors
And shatter war by drawing swords
No more caw the crows of woe
But pause for what they know’s foresworn
She does not break, but still they wait
And sate their hate through mocking fate
Thou must break; thou hast before
Bring back the war! Break now, they caw!
She holds, although she knows not why
For her black night should take the sky
Regret won’t let her mind forget
Eyes dry, she sighs, and guards the rye
The autumn comes, and ‘neath its sun
She wonders if her blunder’s done
Where are the crows? Where did they go?
Awake, she hates, and slowly breaks
But knows it—knows it!—knows she’s breaking
Holds, though holding’s her unmaking
Bides, though 'side her Jimbo’s quaking
Smiles, as Harvest Moon’s awakening
A second sun in thunderous rise
Lights up the skies from side to side
Her pride and bride beside the Sun,
She’s almost won—yes, almost won
The dark held back with her intact
She kept the wheat throughout the weeks
Complete—unbroken. Not quite total
Enough, though, to have earned their trust
To show that she can guard her ponies
Guard her land and guard herself
Watch her health and know herself
No longer break by waiting lonely
Harvest Moon is soon to noon
As midnight bright alights her night
The yield of field lies horizontal
At last, her task dies with the grass
She’s laughter after chaff is shed
No longer treads with thoughts unsaid
And songs become her wrongs undone
Sweet guardian Moon returns with Sun