The Old Farmer

 

The Old Farmer

 

I write sometimes too much, other times not quite enough

Getting the time, or room in peace to work can be tough

 

Before I wrote my most viewed piece, Destination Homestead

There was a man who taught me to use an axe in the shed

 

Before if was the right time to do my Generation Jumping

There was a man , well-read, his stories true, lacking nothing

 

I remember a guy who could dribble, and throw with either hand

He was there for The Hug, it’s my pleasure knowing this man 

 

The December women, Janette and Marjorie ; both gardener’s

I love. I feel. I write. This too, I shared God Made a Farmer

 

Today is my birthday and as a present I’d rather share

Read on, if the words pull you, let them take you there

 

The following lines only begin to capture what I see,

In the fading clips my mind plays of how it used to be

 

But, if I could, I’d be there now, as it was, maybe inside

In the old north room, from icy wind you could not hide

 

Or perhaps I’d come down the old stairs just a bit

To smell the bacon, still my favorite I must admit

 

Settle in here and take this trip, maybe grab a partner

These are my heroes see, each one I call the old farmer

 

---

I have set this piece up for long enough I suppose

Finally, here is The Old Farmer, let’s see how it goes

 

---

 

I’ve been wandering around this place in the cold

As I wade through snow, thinking upon the days of old

 

I feel the wind, how it howls around these corners still

Now matter how long I stay I never do get my fill

 

The snow swirls and dances in the winter breeze

An empty field rolls out from me to the trees

 

The land again wins, revealing the work required

The sculpted landscape’s gone, the one that inspired

 

Light fades as the hidden sun runs to the horizon

Is that the old farmer I see on whipping snow rising?

 

Or is it memory of a scene I long for from childhood?

When nothing filled the days but doing things I could

 

When learning came with the life we spent outdoors

Stories of exploration, which was better, mine or yours?

 

Men on the farm were taller than my vision could see

Arms bigger and stronger than anything I would ever be

 

Joy found in being asked to help, whether or not, I knew

Just to be there, helping them, can I go back and do?

 

Light fades as the setting sun dives to the horizon

Is that the old farmer I see in wind blown hay writhing?

 

God’s earth green, clover spreads like carpet for a king

That’s how it has been, now I wouldn’t change a thing

 

You can almost taste the warm air, it’s noticeably sweet

I recall unfolding from the ride, breathing deep this treat

 

The sky so large, running endless past these rolling hills

To this day, the sight of this grand valley gives me chills

 

The spring runs clear and cold caring not for season

Fresh and pure, drinking any other, a form of treason 

 

Light fades as the sun bows gently behind the cowshed

Is that the old farmer I see waving cows up from the creek bed?

 

Women on the farm were quite able, strong, and wise

Stern yes, but I never noticed love absent from their eyes

 

The ground gave up its bounty but not without a fight

These ladies would make sure we had plenty each night

 

Clothes cleaned, dairy made, milk, butter, and cream

Living then I now crave, living some sort of a dream

 

Time passed, wisdom like grey wafted through their hair

No matter the troubles, smiling eyes ever present there

 

Light fades as the summer sun sets and finally gives in

Is that the old farmer I see at the table with the offset grin?

 

Moonlight shines on crusted hills, stars so close I can hold

Fallen flakes lit up like diamonds all in a row, truth be told

 

Smoke swirls towards the heavens can be seen a mile away

It’s the middle of the night but reflected light resembles day

 

Drifts hide the road and sleds whisk from field to field

This childhood fun never ages, the days’ worries healed

 

Looking past the trees’ lights, there is only the night

The fire is warm, the room is quiet, promise does excite

 

Light fades as my eyes close, pondering this tale I wove

Is that the old farmer I see pumping water below the grove?