THE LAND

The land is hard.
But I work it.
Sometimes it yields,
sometimes not.
Lately, it doesn't yield too much,
just endless heartache.

The weather's changin'.
So are the times.
My back ain't any younger,
and I bleed beneath the callouses.
The ones on the rugged palms of my hands.

I can't do all the work.
My boys don't want to farm,
'cause I sent them all to college,
and the girls along with them.
But they all moved to the city.

They left me and mama here.
So, I put up the "for sale" sign.
Two-hundred beautiful acres.
My tractors, tools, and memories.
All gone to the auctioneers.
Sold American.
I feel more like a "sold out" American.

Five generations before me,
on this farm.
My life blood is drained,
for a cheap condominium,
with paper thin walls,
and plastic doors.
All, so that I'm not a burden,
in my old age.

The city is cramped.
The air is foul.
The people are mean spirited.
I walk to the park on most days.
Even there, the trees and the grass
look unhealthy, like me.

I'd drive back to the farm,
just to look and reminisce.
Even though it isn't mine,
it would bring me a modicum of serenity.
But, this is not God's plan,
because I can't afford the gas.