Wheatfield

Wheat

Father and son
have labored upon this land
for generations; that
first clan whose
name was our very own
had plowed and sown
these same fertile fields
that yielded unto them-all
the corn and wheat and feed–
that they could need
as they toiled and sweat, together
well into the muggy-wet summer nights,
and shivered near death, together
by the darkest of early winter dawns.

But not us–not you and me.
We never learned the language of father and son,
we never worked side-by-side,
we never tried
to speak
one-to-one, never tried to hear and now
the years are gone
and we are
strangers
who say nothing.

Yet if ever it were again, Dad–
if we could be those pioneers, together
a father and son,
I would–
and I’d plow and sow and labor the land
until my hands grew sore
and we’d yield more from this fertile field
than corn and wheat and crops to feed,
through summer’s heat and winter’s cold
we would work
and we would grow
old, together.

By Jason Weaver, 2013

After much time away, I dip my toes lightly into the blogosphere, and add this contribution to OpenLink Night at DVerse Poetry Pub. Check out the other awesome poets!

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