The old man leans upon the fence and ponders for a time
He gazes at the well worn gate as if it were a mime,
The crooked oak that shades the knoll a soldier standing guard
Protects the shed that once stood proud but now a ruin of chard.
The old man sighs and lifts an eye toward the open sky
He rubs his chin and shakes his head within does wonder why,
Years of toil and calloused hands reminder of the plow
What in turn was ones earned pay but sweat upon the brow.
The old man slowly turns perception toward the old farm place
Bows his head in mindful prayer for thanks to run the race,
No earthly wealth was his to own but work for what achieved
Grace thee old man’s fortune t’ was how that he believed!
Kathy J Snow©