The Farmer

Each day he rose with the sun 
as it filtered through the lace —
the woman's touch his wife had hung 
on their farmhouse bedroom window.

In summers, the world was defined
by the fields outside that window
and from that westward facing view
many a morning's  plans were made.

Hope was always for just enough rain 
at just the right time in the season,
and hot, dry days at harvest time,
but he took each day as it was dealt.

Stooped with age from many years 
of breathing life into this land 
and breathing back his own life 
from the dirt and the dust of the fields,

he worked until the sun went down,
— or until the rains came —
reluctant to leave until tomorrow
what could be finished up each day.

When finally the sun had dipped
behind the trees that edged his world
and the nightly fog rolled up the fields,
at last he'd lay his head to rest his eyes

and sometime late at night, he'd go to bed
in that little room with the westward view
to rise the next day with the sun 
as it filtered through the lace. 


july 2004
©Janet Reid