So This Was The Farm

Dredged up from the archives of my past by the prompt from dVerse Poets Pub with the poet Ted Kooser's poem in mind So This Is Nebraska.

 

With hay cut and drying in the sun,

I see those strong boys paid to help.

Heavy bales to lift, throw, and stack,

chaff in our hair, sweat down our backs.

We gathered at the hydrant,

close but not touching. Closer than touching.

 

Thigh-high in goldenrod

on a wend among the boulders,

glacial erratic that lined the fence

worn pocket tops caught the rain

and made a seat for dreams of Oread

hawks and love and common things

 

and lent a view of the jagged line

of rogue apple trees

that grew along the creek

in unmannered ways,

withstood the winds of winter

and bore uncommon fruit

without the nod of a care from us.