in proper furrows, perfect bales of hay,
he turns his mind to troubles that he’s known,
to knowledge lost and found along the way--
to seeds that spawned the crops to feed the years
in fields of every day, in rows of life--
to happiness aplenty, bitter tears,
cherished children, strong and loving wife.
The rhythms yield the lyrics, frank and terse,
in meadows of reflection, rows of time…
a harvest in a journal bound with verse,
a complicated life in simple rhyme--
in fields of thought, in rows of scribbled joy,
the older man, the youth… the little boy.
© 2006 W.D. Neighbors
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