SPARKLING DEW ON THE VIOLETS
IN THE EARLY MORNING SUN,
GRANDPA IS AT THE BARN
PLANTING TIME HAS BEGUN.

UP BEFORE THE SUNRISE
MULE HARNESSED AND READY TO GO,
OFF UP NEAR THE WOODS
THE SOUNDS OF A CROW.

THE ROCKS ARE PLENTIFUL
AND THE ROWS ARE LONG,
THE MULE IS STEADY
THE MAN IS STRONG.

DOWN EACH ROW
MAN AND BEAST MUST GO,
THE DAY IS HOT
THE WORK MOVES SLOW.

THE PLOW CUTS THE EARTH
TURNING UP DIRT AND ROCK,
WORKING BY THE SUN
GRANDPA NEEDED NO CLOCK.

AN OLD PAIR OF OVERALLS
LONG SLEEVE FADED SHIRT,
PLANTING A PATCH OF TOBACCO
TOILING FOR A LIVING IN BLACK DIRT.

AN OLD FELT HAT
TO SHADE HIS FACE,
IT MIGHT TAKE A DAY, OR EVEN TWO
THEY WEREN'T OUT TO WIN NO RACE.

WATER IN A GLASS FRUIT JAR
NESTLED UNDER A CEDAR TREE,
THE TASTE OF PURE WELL WATER
HOW SWEET IT WOULD BE.

HIS HANDS WERE BROWN
CALLOUSED AND WRINKLED WITH AGE,
HIS FACE I WILL ALWAYS SEE
PLACED ON MY SPECIAL MEMORY PAGE.

GRANDPA WAS A FARMER
CORN, TOBACCO, SUGAR CANE,
COWS TO MILK, HOGS TO BUTCHER
COUNTRY FOLK - SIMPLE AND PLAIN.

THE PLANTING IS FINISHED
THE ANIMALS HAVE BEEN FED,
IT'S GETTING SUPPER TIME
A GLASS OF MILK AND CORNBREAD.


I wrote this poem over ten years ago, in memory of my Grandpa. Out
there in that field, plowing and walking every step to get the sod
turned in order to plant a crop. Every year he did the same thing
with a mule and planted corn, tobacco and other crops.

.