That Harrowed Pasture.

As dad and I trod over the newly tilled fields Feeling warmed by the prospect of the day’s work His eyes aglow within those granite features I followed his sight to that field beyond as yet unsown He called it virgin soil or heavens harrowed field So long ago as I stood in awe of the man and his earth So clearly I recall the rich scent of tilled broken ground How the green corn melted with the sky horizons away His powerful leathered hands how gentle they were That chiseled brow that could see into tomorrow He told me the one thing to always remember A man is only as good as the work he puts into the world Then that mythical man from my childhood, my dad Pulled me up into the saddle and whooped at the horse We headed back to the barn to finish the day’s toiling Now all these years later I understand his gift of that night As I stand with my son on the old harrowed pastures…