Success

When I come home from work at close of day
Blind with the sunset, faced with the evening chores,
The hungry pigs, the unmilked cows, the hens
Restless for my attention, with feed and hay
To measure and lift, it seems the whole outdoors
Would let its need for order rest on me.
I hear the windmill’s voice as I clean pens
But never the meadowlark’s, a warning sign
I’ve meant to heed some day but never do.
Now I am old and stooped I’ve come to see
That such year charges interest for its use,
That life’s a mortgage no one can renew,
I’ve found I traded even, farm for sweat
To justify the boast I’m master yet.
Shaky and cold under the wind’s abuse
I read on the tax receipts the land is mine.