Analysis of Burlap Bags

I live alone;
I pick pecans.
When leaves are dry
or wet upon the ground,
I thrash the trees.
I break from branches
undropped, green-husked nuts
and pull the fleshy hulls
from harder shells.
I put them in my
musty burlap bag.
My bent back aches.
I pick the nuts
that fall to earth --
blown by wind, wrenched
from over-weighted twigs.
I store this trove
with acrid smells
in burlap bags.
The nut man calls
but twice a year.
He brings the news;
we drink a beer.
He pays me well,
refreshes my supply
of dusty burlap hell.