The Caretaker

In the amber light of morning,

his hands touch the earth with a reverence known only to those

who speak the language of roots and soil.

They are hands hardened by toil,

but tender in their knowing,

guiding the land to offer up its gifts.

He knows the rhythm of the seasons,

each cycle a verse in a song

that whispers through fields and furrows.

The plow’s bite is his hymn,

the sweat of his brow, a sacrament

poured into the veins of the land.

The critters, too, look to him—

the watchful eyes of creatures

who roam beneath the Southern sky,

where the land is a quilt of cotton and tobacco,

and the soil breathes the sweet sighs of dusk.

He tends them with the patience of a river,

knowing each life is a note in the grand melody

of sustenance and sacrifice.

He tends to their days with the care of a lullaby,

ensuring their passage is kind

before they become a part of the feast.

His sacrifice is the quiet hum of dusk,

a melody of joy wrapped in hardship.

The hands that break the soil are the same

that cradle the simple blessings

of harvest and hearth.

In the twilight, when the land rests,

he stands among the fields,

a silent witness to the dance

between work and grace,

where every dawn’s promise

is a testament to his love.