Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 26, 2016

Turned to Weeds~by Norman Wilson


 

 

 

Turned to Weeds

I turned around on a field behind
Once smothered with love and pride of mine
Built with farmer’s hands in overtime
When within a twist it disappeared into a mist

Thirty years I toiled in those fields
Where corn grew tall revealing a golden yield
I did my best with little rest to fail when done
For those many years under a strawberry sun

Now my hands are cracked and dried
And my face is wrinkled in a suntan dye
With a weaken heart unable to lift a pitchfork or hoe
As the bankers tell me, it is time for me to go

Between life and death I toiled for my fellow man
I toiled to feed the hungry off the land
Now they have cast me off like an old worn shoe
As I turned back to see a field covered in mist and dew

I shall soldier on to the old man’s home
Where people will never know how I toiled for them
Under a strawberry sun, tanning my old wrinkled face
Nar not to be a memory I leave for the human race

What challenges wait on the fields I once turned
For whom shall it be to turn the soil for me
Shall it be the banks that have broken my heart
As the fields now sit idle grown in weeds

All rights reserved 07/18/16
Norman Francis


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