Harvest

I swear, I do write happy poems from time to time.  Ah well.

HARVEST

The land...the land.
The land is all he has these days:
thrice times twenty acres,
field and forest, blade and tree,
and all the sky above--
but not a soul to call his own.

He built this house himself, you know,
every brick and shingle,
every nail and hinge placed
by his own two work-hard hands:
a shelter meant for her, so long ago,
his Emily, the queen of his heart.

He courted her with simple words and raindrops
for all a promising spring and all a fruitful summer,
but when the time came ripe to ask her,
he turned his face away and said, "Not yet."
Not until he'd a finished home to offer.
Not until his own fields
stood golden in the sun at harvest time.
Not until.

Then came the war,
and the far away,
and when he returned to his empty house,
he found she'd grown tired of "Not until,"
and settled for "Why not?"

Life goes on.
He's watched these fields
through thrice times twenty growing seasons,
the undisputed ruler
of a green and verdant wasteland;
good years and bad years,
but what has he to show for all that?

The land...the land.
The land is all he has these days,
and not a soul to call his own.