The Old Farmer

by

 

He was lying like a twig in the hay
the old farmer
Dad and I raised him, each on a side
and carried him to his kitchen door 

There, at the top of the steps, we danced
trying to enter the narrow passage
His legs going separate ways
waved apart before us 

The speechless anger in his eyes
was all that age had left
of the dignity of living on his land

 

First published in Cottonwood.

 

Remains of a Farm Wagon Behind Our House. Photo by Mike Smetzer

Remains of a Farm Wagon Behind Our House. Photo by Mike Smetzer

Advertisements

Tags: , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: