Reverie of Father

Scores of fresh cut wheat fields shimmer golden in the sun.
Dad and I riding side by side from a workday nearly done.

He steers the narrow tractor wheels through the rutty lanes.
Skillfully maneuvering, he never spills the precious grains.

I was riding with my Father, all the town's people could see.
We pulled onto the Main Street; I was proud as I could be.

The owner of Ollie's Grocery Store waved his dirty smock.
Mrs. Red nodded courteously; she once had fixed our clock.

Chugging up the lane way, we had reached our modest farm.
We augured wheat into the bins, saved from weather's harm.

"Time to clean up for supper Son. This won't be very hard."
He sprayed me with the garden hose as I ran around the yard.

He lumbered to the house as I rode safely on his back.
If we encountered coyotes, I'd be safe from the attack.

He's an enormous oak tree that never has been down.
Mother boasts that he's the most respected man in town.

A fresh made garden salad, BBQ from a farmed raised pig;
I wondered if I ate enough, would I grow up strong and big.

A dish of smashed potatoes, warm biscuits and fresh beans;
when father had enough, he'd pop the button on his jeans.

He and mom did dishes, then we took cane poles to the creak.
We sat down with lines in the water, reflecting on the week.

Father quickly sat up, he felt a tug as his line went taught.
In awe, I watched him land the biggest trout he'd ever caught.

The sun danced on the water, a golden hue was everywhere.
I fell asleep on the creek bank, blissful rest without a care.

I awoke on mother's porch swing, a tear dripped on my shoe.
Nothing real, a longing dream; Father died when I was two.