Ruffle the Pages

An oak tree spread shade,
from a nearby field, a meadowlark
floated its song on a whisper
of wind. My thoughts drifted
like thistledown over the pot
of ashes we came to consecrate.
The mild summer air shimmered
beyond the oak tree’s shade.
I ruffled the pages of memory
from the days I helped you
learn to walk to the time we
men worked the farm together.
There I read of the worry, anxiety,
debts we tried to pay. We owed
ourselves the wet, dry, good years
and paid with sweat and care.
The long rows of corn testified for us,
hired men, machines shared our burdens.
The house where Mother made a home
until our wives defeated her.
I read this in the name of security
for a day’s food, night’s rest, year’s record. 
Brother to thy sad graveside have I come
in wonder that so much effort
of our lives pays for this time of rest.