| By Teresa Starcher
Although I am far from being a poet, at times I find myself so moved by a pattern of thought, situation, or a person, that I feel compelled to attempt capturing its essence in verse. I wish to present the following in tribute to my father, William C. Stutler, Walter Villers, John Arthur, Howard Cooper and Rex Ward.
They are men who have known the farmer's season.
The Farmer’s Season
Brown hands grip the handles
Of a plow to turn the sod
Nothing’s more important to him
Except his family and his God
He will rise before the dawn
Aged dusk may end his toil
His life’s blood courses through this land
His sweat nourishing its soil
Through hay time onto harvest
He travails upon his fields
Coaching harsh ole mother nature
To aid him with her yields
His axe and scythe have hefted
To wash the landscape’s face
No scrubs nor brush or weeds
Gain ground upon his place
Six days per week to labor
The seventh is the Lord’s
This day of rest and worship
Which his Holy Book accords
Although his hands are calloused
His heart is very tender
From calves and chicks to new born babes
Love and gentle care to render
Though times his words seem curt and few
Yet humble to his fellow man
He will gladly stop his chores
To lend a neighborly hand
Oft times in eves he strolls along
Around his garden place
Removes his hat from his bald head
Then seeks his Savior’s face
Worn out mere shadow of the man
On a gaunt and wrinkled face it shows
Though the farm still begs his tending
He’s as frayed and faded as his clothes
When time and toil has used up his old body
He turns his tired eyes toward the sky
He yearns for the peaceful rest in
His blessed home in the by and by
As his limbs grow weak and tremble
Those who know him understand
Though it’s hard to mourn his passing
We will forever miss the man
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