At Home

For my brother, who left this world too soon

I did not follow you to the fields

to plow the dark, cool soil

by night, after a day’s work for cash.

But I know how your boy-frame hunched

forward in the tractor seat to hug the wheel,

how moonlight fell across your bare back,

how the engine’s hum mesmerized you.

Farm boy, at home in the family fields.

I did not follow you on the open road

sailing into the heartland

to lush wheat ripe for harvest.

But I know you drove fast with windows down,

wind rushing against your face, plains sweeping

toward Litchfield, Des Moines, Moline,

big farm territory, wide-open sky.

John Deere boy, at home in the vast Midwest.

I did not follow you to West Tennessee

as you greeted coffee-guzzling farmers

mornings in the café, raising a flat palm.

But I know the ring of your Hel-lo-o-o!

as sunburned faces crinkled - chewing tobacco

or smoking expensive cigars - men calling out,

Hey Dave! Y’all got a 9550 combine?

John Deere man, at home on the flatlands.

I did not follow you on your last dark journey,

But I know you squared your shoulders against

the lonely terrain, and I like to think

that a brilliant light caught the blue of your eyes

as you came into kinder country and strained to

glimpse a familiar face, and when you did -

A sweeping wave, a big Hel-lo-o-o! -

You were at home.

pgallaher@copyright 2019

www.phyllisgobbell.com