PETTY PONDERING - The Farmer's Season

(12/03/2004)

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 Farmerís Season

Brown hands grip the handles
Of a plow to turn the sod
Nothingís more important to him
Except his family and his God

He will rise before the dawn
Aged dusk may end his toil
His lifeís 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 landscapeís face
No scrubs nor brush or weeds
Gain ground upon his place

Six days per week to labor
The seventh is the Lordís
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 Saviorís face

Worn out mere shadow of the man
On a gaunt and wrinkled face it shows
Though the farm still begs his tending
Heís 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 itís hard to mourn his passing
We will forever miss the man


Hur Herald ģfrom Sunny Cal
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