Dust devils dance on furrowed space,
Bitter tears fall staining his weathered face.
So many years spent working this land,
The dry dust slips from his wrinkled hand.
Abandoned buildings crumbling like dreams
Silent unashamed tears flow in streams.
Memories of long ago from a distant past,
Stay just out of his aged grasp.
He bows his head with defeat,
The breeze kicking up silt at his feet.
If only youth would have held on a little longer,
If only he could have been a little stronger.
“Come on pop it’s time to go.”
He calls back without turning, “I know.”
Once these fields had abundantly produced,
Blissful hard work with his youth.
So wishing to recapture the land's esteem,
But alas it’s a foolish old farmer's dream,
Time is fickle with the games it'll play,
Reconciled to just another yesterday.