Aside

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?
 
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