The rows of corn were straight as history is long
The farmer knew he had chosen soiled hands
Or was it a blessing
The morning sun always waited for his signal
Nature waits for those who care for the land

The wood desk was smooth as glass
A hand-carved wooden hand pointed north
Or was it to God
It had been mounted upon a wall
He took it down to find the place of his souls birth

The old boots were as cracked as his voice
He kissed his father hoping to see him again
Or was it faith
Tomorrows long day would wait a little longer
For the night knew his tears would say when