this farmer's son
who spent a hundred Februarys
give or take
waiting for the snows to melt
and soft March rains to come
a hundred springs
sowing in faith
face turned toward a bright Kansas sun
lined and leathered
always planning
for the hoped-for harvest
a hundred springs
perched on a cracked, vinyl seat
making daily stops
along dusty ribbons of road
whilst small children tramped on and off
eager for the final weeks of school
to be done already
tossing a careless wave
to their favorite bus driver
before traipsing home
he probably knew just about everybody in town
and around about
and spent a hundred Sunday mornings
gathered with his spiritual kin
head bowed
or standing singing
reading along from a worn bible
held reverently in calloused hands
a hundred Sundays
waiting with the saints
for the promised harvest
a hundred Sunday dinners
jawing
telling stories of small nephews
backing large tractors into unsuspecting ponds
grandchildren
beguiled by this gentle grandpa
their chubby arms raised
wanting a cuddle
fighting for a prized spot on denim knees
falling asleep with mashed potato faces
pressed against a flannel shoulder
but now
those early school bus mornings
days of sun and rain
of planting and watching and waiting
the Sabbath days of praise and prayer and rest
are over
this beloved husband father grandpa uncle brother
who lived with joy
and sowed in sometimes tears
has reaped the final harvest
the days of waiting are finished
the once capable hands are stilled
the eyes that spent a hundred seasons
squinting at the sun
are closed
winter is over
and spring has come
in loving memory of Uncle Dale