By Pat Underwood
Des Moines Branch
My father stepped into the field that spring
and sifted black earth through his fingers
until it fell to the ground like a kiss
to that which fed us, clothed us,
put a roof over our heads.
Toby stood in the nearby grass,
tail wagging, eyes watching —
ever the approving companion
for an Iowa farmer and his yields,
so fertile, with only our silence,
as usual, and Mother’s steaming stew,
cornbread and butter on the side.
Even now I think of my father
loving, cursing each ambivalent bump
his tractor would feel —
the miracle of growth on the farm
that fed a hungry world.
A heart-stirring tribute to your father for feeding your family, and to all farmers who feed us all. The images of the black earth falling from his hands, and the watchful, loyal dog bring it alive. So many feelings are evoked here.
Beautiful, Pat!
I grew up on the farm and remember Dad checking the soil in the spring. Too wet and the tractor would get stuck.
but, now as an adult, I also love to hold the dark soil in my hands in the spring to reacquaint myself with the earth after the long, cold winter
Truly beautiful verse, really lets you experience the idea through accessing the metaphor.
What a wonderful piece… just lets you sink into the metaphor.