In the photo, my father sits
on his favorite tractor, Big Blue,
for an early April spring plow.
East Meadow’s acres like a lake
the color of bourbon syrup.
Pipe smoke stings pure air.
Big grin under his baseball cap,
strong back bent forward,
engine ready to cover noise
of the day’s first birds.
I know how the ground must
be like this in April, dark face
up, exposed. Waiting to find
out whatever the sky does next.
Which seeds will fall?
He had an adolescent’s joy
as sprouts came out of the soil,
smiled as he spread them
with manure. Nightly prayers
at our table for a good harvest.
Colors in the frame have faded.
The sun still breaks in shards
through his maples though
it is hard to imagine the world
in tune without his attention.
Tractor’s gone; fields fallow.
Before dawn, I blanket my body
on the back porch staring out
to the field where he was
and now, in the blackness, nothing.
Take heart. We have so much
in common in this place.
His footsteps so light
to believe he still lingers.
Let the fields speak for themselves.
