"Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face
And on his back the burden of the world."
John Steinbeck…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And from his
Cracked parched lips
Wearied prayers are offered
Daily, rolled as dice blurred words
(Being little more than gravelly whispers)
Pleading earnestly - amidst a dry mosaic of
Stones and dusty furrows - for clement rains
To reanimate the skeletal fields he once
Dreamt would be his Eden…

Even so, he tilled the earth
In languishing rhythms, scraping,
Scratching, turning, folding, speaking to it,
Loving it, hating it, as his composure
Slowly waned… Often

Snared in dark seasons of thought,
He cursed his lot - in cleaving discontent - each
Day, weathered hands bearing (doggedly) the burthen of
Family misfortune, whose dreams sifted through his fingers
On quicksilver winds and settled in places where all
Such things unrequited finally find rest


richard lloyd cederberg
2012
                          richardlloydcederberg.com