Carl didn't finish school,
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke,
Seeing suns rise and fall,
Living in the weather,
Freezing or sweating to the season,
Reading the wind,
Cursing the heat and migraines.

Smoking Salem cigarettes
Alone in his bunkhouse,
He never mentioned his regrets;
Three meals a day with us,
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work

The draft cards came;
Vietnam called;
Neighbors left,
But Carl stayed.

One day I barraged him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"

"I can't," his reply.

I asked why.

"Because I tested border-line *****."

Just 10, I had no idea what "*****" meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the power of labels.

Now I do.

When authorities mis-measure
The capacities of a man,
When labels shackle,
We fail to see or know
Imago Dei before us.

We didn't stop to think
What gifts he had,
Nor did we see the perfection
Of his creations on his bunkhouse table:
Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery:
Tractors, cultivators, harvesters,
Cut from plastic and metal stock,
Measured intricately to scale,
Fitted with loving care,
Glued and painted,
Complete and ready
For some small-minded man
To drive into a miniature field.