|Nebraska Center for Writers|
SON GROWN TIRED OF THE CITY
He drives home about every weekend
to visit the farm,
the place he couldn't wait to leave:
he needed a big city, bright lights, opportunities,
places to goloud music.
But ten years have passed since his college graduation,
and happiness has eluded him
like the Canadian geese migration
momentarily beautiful with long lapses of absence
now his longing is calling him home.
Was it finding Sarah, your fianceacute;e?
Is it that homing syndromelike the pigeons
that draws him back,
that draws us all back?
Is it disillusionment
with corporate-world promises?
Now he slows down
as the drive for success and self talk goes dead quiet
He returns to this boyhood home,
gazes out at green pastures;
prairie flowers bloom in their silent colors;
soil of plowed fields glows deep brown
life from the dirt pushes up in stillness;
he'd forgotten how much he loved this country song of solitude
just a boy and his dog.
To be free again
no one talking down to him
as if he were intellectually inferior
he is free,
Tonight, he stands
changed from his business suit of resignation
into his Levis of sweet solace
looking out over the farm
under a star-sprinkled sky,
the moon rises over the evergreens,
off in the pasture, one cow moos lowly,
slowly moving towards the herd.
While October was culminating,|
autumn got into the jewelry box
of these thriving bushes, and
silently pocketed the emeralds,
leafing these radiant red rubies,
and, running through the pasture,
scattered diamonds on Silver Creek.
Now this crowned season
in crimsoned autumn air,
with fields gone russet,
dazzles brilliantly. Oh,
that I were queen
of these woodlands.
Plum blossoms bloom soon blushing road side’s face,
green pastures, fields flower’d in the wild rose,
and every turn reveals sweet Summer’s grace,
birthed from the tender seeds lovely Spring sows.
And you my blue-eyed love, my blonde-haired boy,
your golden skin, your muscled sturdy frame,
kissed by sun’s love each year you’ve farmed with joy,
you’ve spilled your love out on the land the same.
Soon Summer’s greens flame into Autumn’s reds,
the harvest of love’s labors ripe with grain
years grace your face as Summers now have fled
and leave their trace of Eden’s curse ingrained.
Sweet fruits and flowers the gift of Spring time’s seed
in love, the harvest of man’s toil indeed.