-for Larry,my father
There’s a farm carved from wilderness
by a man who called himself a pioneer.
It only exists now the way I remember-
Angus cattle dotted the grassy hillsides
and walked to the salt lick at sundown.
Purple martins swooped to catch supper
doing us a favor, eating those mosquitoes.
Laughing children darted through rows of
bushy tomato plants in a forty acre field
on noisy four wheelers and mini bikes.
Horses smiled like people and hung their
well groomed manes and heads over the
rails painted in distinct John Deere green.
And when I drove up, he’d be seated on
the front porch admiring the mountains.
Sometimes he’d be watering his flowers
on the driveway beyond the metal gates.
Once, I found him with arms folded and
leaning back in a beat up chair waiting by
the tack room with a grin of contentment.