Musings of an Old Farmer

On
Pitch black nights
On old back country
Roads worn by an
Old farmer’s truck
Now sparsely
Dotted with stones

Wheat waits patient
After summer burned it
Brown; an old farmer’s
Machines wait silent
In barns to reap
What was sown.

Harvest knows and
An old farmer as
Well how October
Creaks, like frozen
Ponds and lakes,
Preparing for a spell.

When
Winter sets in upon
Freshly gleaned
Land; On early morns
An old farmer peers
Through his kitchen
Window and

Sees remnants of wheat
Peeking through the
Snow; he sips hot
Coffee and thinks
How his harvested
Summer gold

Sits in silos like
Chested treasure of
Lore and for that
Matter he may be
A king famed
By wealth’s honor.

But
In the eerie dark of
Morning’s light,
An old farmer
Forgets foolish thoughts,
Returning to mind
Such tasks at hand

More befitting
to such a man:
Gear, machines to
Repair and worries
About the crop the
Following year.

Yet such tasks
Will take an
Old farmer a whole
Winter through, so
For once he rests, letting
His coffee grow cold.

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2 thoughts on “Musings of an Old Farmer

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