thomas curry willey

america’s civil war is ended

reconstruction struggles through dixie

eighteen-seventy and lincoln is cold

eternally bound in his grave by the ages

thomas curry willey came into the world

of bucolic sussex land the measure of many

coarsened folk a requisite character trait

 to bear up there in penury’s land

the burden of tedious duties overwhelmed

survival made off with joy and festivity

trudge filled days painted eyes and faces hollow

destitution’s children knew labors, no sport

soil fit to challenge the best of cultivators

 weary the pleasures of rest were not tasted

adapt and accept hardship’s steely grip

or fall to the unyielding demands of the land

good men of the time cast off their pride

 reduced to backbreaking menial tasks

towing onerous duty today’s leisure crowd

could not even conceptually harbor

from farmer to near indentured logging slave

I wince at the relentless effort he long gave

a man who wore the hats of diversity to raise

seven children when luxury and rest were words

that never held out promise to his weary back

blistered palms and fragile body longing for ease

through it all eighty-three years he endured

men of my grandfather’s grit have all passed

05/29/2011

Jon Michael Willey