Poetry

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It's October in
the old man's life.
He's plowed that field
for 77 years.
Gone is his final harvest,
now just his last row to turn.
Soon a new soil
he will know.
We watch him turn
the ground over;
preparing for winter;
awaiting the new season.
Those same three horses
did the work all those years.
It will be strange to see the frost
where the old man toiled.
That field will forever feel
empty and barren.
But underground
a new life is starting.
In the spring of that new life,
those same three horses will be there.
But in a field
with no weeds or drought.
I can almost see him
walking in that golden field
of God' glory.

That server who knows
just the right amount of time
and the exact power
to cook something in
the microwave,
such as a bag of popcorn.
I hear those last
few kernals popping
in the bag of his life.
Soon the timer
will ring
and he will be ready

*Inspired by a Les Kouba painting called "October" in the hallway of the hospice section of the hospital.
In honor of my earthly father who was a hobby farmer and who simply believed.

H. Stone © 2005

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