Farm Boots

 

Once you stood tall,

stiff as though starched,

a subtle sheen showing your brand-newness.

It couldn’t last.

Off the shelf and onto feet,

and into dirt, among other things.

 

Trouble was taken, at first,

to keep you looking new,

considering carefully how long you must last,

and the preciousness of things

newly purchased only for one’s self.

 

The feet you shod paced out land,

drove the machines that sow seeds and reap crops,

they paced in the barn at the birthing of calves.

They left bed before morning light and carried out chores

as old as this way of life,

and made you wait patiently at the back door at meal times.

 

The soil from which life is wrought

day by day darkened creases formed by constant motion,

like the lines in hard-working hands and faces

that show their purpose as clearly as you show yours.

 

And now you lean by the back door,

well-earned exhaustion showing in your frayed laces and crumpled tongue.

Written in the language of wear

upon your face and very sole,

are the labors of life of love of land

that you bore able hands to do.

 

Farm boots.

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~ by Trillian on 10/25/2010.

2 Responses to “Farm Boots”

  1. Well done! All the great ideas in the world don’t mean much without boots on the ground to make them happen.

    Jim

  2. I like the poem. Reaches back to images of ancestors long gone. (If they were fortunate enough to have boots….I wonder what kind of footwear they brought with them from Eastern Europe to Alberta.

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