“The Farmer Watches” —my latest poem

I love sitting outside and watching the rain. Few things inspire me to write like a steady rain. As I watched the rain recently, I wrote this poem, which reminded me of my childhood home on the farm.

The Farmer Watches

The scent precedes the approaching rain.
The farmer watches.

The winds pick up,
And the branches lean and groan.
The farmer watches.

From the kitchen window,
He sees the early sprinkles signal the advance
And melt into the screen like a forgotten dream of youth.
The farmer watches.

The downpour rolls like waves over the fields.
The earth is broken and cracked,
But the stalks are strong,
And they will not bow or break, he reasons.
The farmer watches.

When the belly of the soil is full,
It can no longer drink.
Little rivers find other tributaries between the rows
And soften the firm hold of the roots.
A gale rises like a champion and flings the weakest aside.
The farmer watches.

The rusted hood of the tractor
Heralds a new challenger through the drone of the rain.
A hammer crashes onto an anvil
To harden and hone the blades and axes of war.
Just so, the hail comes down,
Beating through boll and leaf until they fall.
The farmer watches.

His children, safe but oblivious, never came home from college—his wife, long dead.
The twister takes the rest, tearing through his livelihood like a whip through flesh.
Two generations ago, the slaves knew of this.
His prayers that he be taken go unanswered.
The screen door slams as he embarks to trudge through his ruin.
A wrinkly fist raised, he curses God and the Democrats.
He returns to shower and shave, sip a coffee—the cube of sugar melts like it was never there.
The farmer watches and cries.