the farm

your father
in the field, his
white hair
aglow with the two
oclock sun.
you see his arms
go up, go down,
doing what he
has to do to
keep this farm.
you see him
every day, at his
work, back and forth
in the plowed lanes,
planting, watering,
harvesting
not dreams, for
who would dream
such a life as this.
he would.
this world is
enough for him.
the heat, the struggle.
to be so tired that
the rest of what
lies out there,
doesn't matter. and
when your son
chooses another way,
you can't blame him.