Another Spring

He's gone who was my love, my sun, no less.

He broke the earth and felt the year progress.

He raked the hay against untimely rain

and stamped home, wet as mud fields, to complain.

When dust was all that clouded in the sky

and rained on field and house, it was his cry

that told the horse to haul our lives away,

that sold the farm goods off and cursed the pay.

His pride bowed down, he walked a crowded street

and stood in line for bread so we could eat.

But, now, with that time past us, so is he.

He presses earth again, with skull and knee.

When lank-boned daughters flesh to woman's state,

who'll tell the slick-tongued suitors they must wait?

Who'll argue with his sons when supper's spread

and pass along opinion with the bread?

Not my old man who loudly faced each pain,

my sun, who will not feel the sun again.

Copyright © 1986 Marian Jane Dickinson