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Straw Man

by John Kent
I live
on this farm,
head slightly tilted,
arms thrust out,
garments flapping
in the wind;
never yielding
to a white, hot sun.
Through sheets of thunder,
winter white,
bloom of spring,
I'm always here;
the world going by
on dusting roads,
gray tinged clouds
and four-wheel drive.

Sweat of toil
nourishing soil,
coaxing seed
to sprout and grow,
paying the heart
at harvest time;
birds circling 'round,
screaming off.
Faces changing,
fade through years,
hands remaining
hard and strong.
The land rising...sleeping
the sun coming up...
and going down.

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Copyright © 2000 by John Kent. All rights reserved.