Blind Farmer

So well, he knows his acres,
He walks out into the sun
And down a furrow’s length,
Straight as an arrow;
Then through the timothy,
Across the brook, unfalteringly…
Pride in his stride,
Pride in his ownership of this wide
Farm, with house and barn,
And meadow fenced with split
White pine. ‘Twas here he brought
His bride, here, at his side,
His tall sons grew to manhood.
Here he harvested good fruits
Of field and tree; paused often
With his hand upon his plow
To ask God: “Where?” or “When?” or “How?”
He grumbles not at darkness, now.
Beauty and wisdom that he garnered
From the sod, through years of righteous
Living, light his way; so that, today,
He asks no greater joy than this:
To come alone, through fields he knows,
To sit in reverie beneath the pines
That guard, tenaciously, this fartherest
High hill of his beloved dynasty!