Just last week he was on his knees
In my mother’s kitchen
Scrubbing the yellow flowers’
Darkened dimples.
“The floor’s still good,
But the wax has darkened.
It’s been in there 30 years now!”
He told me on the phone.

Nothing needed replacing
If there was any usefulness left:
An old floor, or pair of jeans,
An old Ford or length of wire;
Use and re-use,
Or if something were not useful
At the moment,
It was stored (sometimes tagged)
In some haphazard pile for later.

Today we walked out on the place
He lived fifty-four years…
Scratched our heads and
Wondered where to begin.

“You can clean some of this scrap up…
Make some money,”
I say to my farmer brother.
“No!” his quick reply,
“Never know when something
Might come in handy.”

I stand there, looking
At the tottering empire of scrap,
Broken equipment,
Peeling, graying sheds.
I realize that in some ways
Dad isn’t really gone…
That I am the one who has left
The family farm up on the hill
Out in the sun and wind
And the seldom rains.