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Susan K. Rowse

The Tiller and the Dream

Some chores for the laborer magnify their dreams
He that tills instead of writes sees the mighty stream
He watches clouds that change the land with shadows of promised rain
He smells the hint of campfires close this beauty is his brain
His blistered hands signify the promise of fresh fruit
His muscled arms tell the tale of leathered flesh and soot
The farmland tilled gives him the chance to frame each meadow flower
Then when it rains its soothes his soul with a cleansing evening shower
He the laborer...twisted strength...the words that never come
The painted earth he visualizes...his emotions more...than some
He goes to sleep and in his dreams his day becomes his home
He dreams the words that he worked abreast in a living poem
The tiller works with beauty close he is a man of dreams
He doesn't have the words sometimes instead he fords the stream
He smells the freshly home cooked bread then closes eyes to taste
He may be a bunioned farmhand but nothing goes to waste