Rotted wheat squats patchily on his farm.
Though harvest time calls, he lets it grow.
Without a customer to his crop,
He has little incentive to properly sow.
A crooked hill overlooks the creek,
A flaky, limestone waterbed,
The hill has bushes stretching from its base
And many cuts upon its head.
Once golden streams lay a stagnant grey,
Waterfalling over two lifeless caves.
I knew a woman that once explored those caverns,
But that was back when he used to shave.
The only sound heard on these hills is an angry wheezing.
There are no words here, only noises.
What use are words when there’s no one to speak them to?
With no one to share dinner with, why maintain poise?
Every day the land’s reminded that its caretaker is long gone.
Every day the man’s reminded that his lover is now a lawn.
Is he still truly a farmer,
If he no longer wakes at dawn?
Is he still a farmer if his tractor’s rusted and still?
Is he still a farmer if his crops are sick and withering?
He asked this question once, but cast it aside.
I’m a farmer, he nods, as his tired horse pulls at its tethering.