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…
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