his family farm

 

having been born there
grown up there
as an only child there
learned to fiddle there
brought a young bride there
raised a daughter there
raised an heir there
a hand in marriage asked for there
was his family farm

it's land, cows, crops and barn
was his life yet
his family came first,
a county job he then took
while still working his farming fields,
mud, snow, rain, dust and dirt
never stole from his eyes
a twinkle that could melt
a puppy's heart

his center a few hundred acres
never traveling to far a field
yet was wiser then
most i'd ever met
as once he said,
i could look but i couldn't touch,
with his daughter,
my wife,
sitting near by

in the evening when
work no longer could be done
out came a fiddle or
on came a ballgame to be heard
all the while telling stories of
the history he knew
the history he lived
the history he created
with a sly smile about his round face

though out the fields
in soil he worked
on land he loved
his soul, sweat and tears
run forever deep
giving strength to all
he ever loved
ones that mourn still know
he never will be truly gone

 

doug thornhill (dct)