Planting Time

Turning the Soil

Crippled fingers, furrowed brows,

Dirt under fingernails from rows plowed.

T’was a time of fascination or so some have said,

Stories told by farmers who plowed until they were dead.

It was with gratitude we watched crops grow,

Plowed land of the gee-haw man wearing dirty clothes.

A simpler time it’s often been stated,

When life came from the land, but now has faded.

Spring until fall, that’s the time each had,

The weather was sometimes good, or sometimes it was bad.

From seeding to harvest we all worked to see,

Whether crops would be enough that was the key.

There are people who balk at tilling the dirt,

From sunrise to sunset, we’d often have to work.

Wasn’t a time for childish running and play,

For tilling the land took up our day.

Now in a world filled with machines and fewer chores,

There’s little farming or working in storm’s downpours.

Yet, as I think with eyes growing dim, as I often do,

I’d rather hear the gee-haw man and the braying of his mule.