A weathered, oaken sort of man
Once loved these fields, now gray with dust.
His mighty, corded, gnarled hands
Cleaned this plow now caked with rust.
Tools grew old, as did the man,
They broke. The oaken man was bent.
Time, which claims us all at last,
Was measured out as strength was spent.
His land gained more than money's worth,
From sweat and effort, pain and sorrow.
Each day he labored, never dreamed,
It could be all undone tomorrow.
He had no gold to leave behind,
Just this land, so full of toil,
This weed-choked field, once full and green,
This stretch of dry and dusty soil.
Each day we tend beloved fields,
And live for what we've planted there,
Not dreaming that someday those dreams,
Will be sun-baked, dry, and bare.
Copyright Donovan Baldwin