Uncle Nat was a farmer.

His fields yielded richly some years:

Soy beans and cotton, mostly.

Other years, drought shriveled the crops,

forced the family to accept charity

from food banks: flour and milk.

He was often unlucky

but beat all odds,

twice.

Struck by lighting in 1947.

Struck again in 1955.

Defying probability.

I once asked my cousin,

Do you think Uncle Nat

would ever play the lottery?

No, she said, especially after

he was run over

by that dump truck.

Odds were often on his side,

but luck never was.

***