When He Was

Photo credit Peter Law https://unsplash.com/@retepwal

When I was a child I thought he was a giant
With his arms he moved whole trees
And animals tenfold his weight
He lorded over – they went where he willed
He worked from dawn to dusk
And at his command
Horizons changed from gold to black
A humongous steed: I teetered on his shoulders
As he charged past my clutching brothers
Raised me and football up high—
A victor’s flag in the pasture end zone
He often stood, encircled by limitless sky
demanding sun or rain
The man, the gods, the clouds, the sky
Were one
He was a giant when I was a child

 
When I was a boy, I dreamed he was the farm
He would grimace, flex calloused fingers
Tractors bent to cultivators
turning soil flesh furrows
Wheat grew in sweat pores
and a thresher augured gold into his grainbin heart
When he was angry, clouds lashed
Tractors bogged down, sloughs spread like flood,
cows scattered, pigs fought each squealing step
from pen to pen
Farm buildings glowered
When he was happy
Surging earth buoyed our steps, quickened our chores
Acrobatic swallows like flying laughter
called our eyes and heartstrings higher
I dreamed the farm was he, when I was a boy
 
When I was a youth, I thought him wise
“Hold the drill straight with the world,” he’d chide me,
a struggling ten.
“What’s built right, stays right.”
“Plant the rows straight as a welder’s bead,”
he’d lecture from the tractor’s seat,
“don’t overlap the seed.”
“Close the goddamn door!” he’d yell.
“You’re heatin’ the whole country!
Turn off the light, save a Reddy Kilowatt, will ya?”
“Treat the earth like gold,” he’d say,
“this land’s a vault of riches.”
“You want some?” he’d wink, and point a finger
“Hard work’s the only key.”
He was wise when I was a youth 

When I was a teen, I called him tyrant
Calling, “It’s time to get up, if you want.”
No choice, as the voice rolled downstairs,
“Those pigs are getting hungry out there.”
Demanding, “Who was it gave you those drugs?”
Belt strap in hand, riding the pulpit of his anger
Yelling, “You’re nothin’ but a goddamn bum!”
Striding to the chores I wouldn’t do
Reproaching, “I guess the old Chevy still runs.”
Sad eye trained on the wreck of my car
Commanding, “They’ll be no more parties around here.”
Chasing hippy friends from our door
He was a tyrant when I was a teen

When I was a young man, he was never seen
The farmyard a playground,
bale stacks now castles
Grain bins and sheds, hide and seek kingdoms
Quiet in his living room recliner
while grandkids gamboled
Like the earth beneath new-sprouted crop
The coop floor carpeted by chicks
Like the ground under calves’ hooves kicking at the air,
which only land to leap again
The source of a spring, distant and silent
from which yet tumbles the clearest of streams
My father was invisible when I was a young man

When I was older, and he was old, I thought he’d been forgotten
The farmyard now scorning even the echo of his will
A granary, uprooted,
pointing dead legs to the sky
Implements, pulled under
by the long grasping grasses
struggling to be recognized
At each field’s edge, treelines encroached
Weeds, a mocking, bitter harvest
spread like cancer
Fenceposts leaned with drunken intent
to join their fallen brothers
Barn doors, open to the wind
howled their emptiness
The farm, and I, had forgotten him

When he was dying, I thought he was beautiful
Unwillingly gripped
The bed, nurses, time
All conspirators in death’s advance
binding a giant uprooted and helpless
Like prairie clouds, thoughts drifted
“You were always good to work with,” he said
“So is your brother,” a brother long dead
Stretched tight, his skin a canvas frame
for eighty years of brushstrokes,
jabs, smears, caresses of colour
Like sunbeams through a barn window
wherein dusty memories dance
His sunken eyes, translucent skin, a window frame
for the light of a radiant soul
He was beautiful when he was dying

When he died
His coffin planted under a blue sky
so painfully clear the naked sun was shamed
The wind tormented our clothes
and the flat land sizzled
Restless great grandkids fidgeted at mortality’s lip
for a man they’d hardly known
His meaning,
scattered, tossed,
like poplar fluff in the wind
Muttered, sighed, and whispered,
like coughs exchanged by old folk
in the church basement
The farmyard now barren
The earth, once treasure,
turned to dirt beneath our feet
When he died.

*As read at The Haven in January of 2020.