Fallen Sign

There comes a time when
everything seems to repeat itself
as a calf or colt resembles its mother.
Thirty years ago I entered this gate
and planted the seeds I wanted to grow.
Any comfort at my age came from
the confidence that each seed contained
its own architecture for the plant
it would build. I could see the fertile
fields and rolling hills as far as my eyes
could travel as they lay under the sun.
I heard the crows making a racket in the grove.
Meadowlarks perched on fence posts,
corn borer moths like winged snowflakes
settled on the stalks. I watched it all
with an owner’s eye as if a man owns
what he sees. The sun took its time to cross
the sky, rain clouds drew their curtains
to darken the day. But I stood there
with a mind counting what I had done
or did not do, moments passed slowly.
Each one marked off the length of life.
I picked up a fallen sign hidden in the grass
where once a young man had spelled
his name with hope.