See out the broad window,

the long oak benches,

patched and pieced together

from broken pallets,

but done well in the hard,

straight-grained pattern

of this particular wood,

and the old men

who sit  upon the benches,

bent and gnarled

with the hard work of their years,

knees and elbows knobbed

with the strain of it,

the wrinkles running deeply

down the sun-browned leanness

of their long-grained faces,

dressed in uniforms of their labor,

denim overalls and blue jeans,

the seed caps or straw hats.

See how the younger strangers

walk by with little notice,

or stand nearby without acknowledgements,

species of another forest,

but the elders scoot aside

for one of their own.

Yes, his eyes gleam with

the pleasure of  their company

as they make room

even to squeeze him in

with smiles or nods of their heads,

a fellow tiller and child

of black soil mellow

but demanding for know-how

before it yields.

Yes,

their roots run deep,

in fellowship for seasons

long, long ago,

and evermore today.

copyright 2009, Jerry W. Engler