He’s farming at my feet.

The operations cease
during school hours;
but the return of the yellow bus
signals a kind of sunrise
and the return to work
for idle augers, discs,
feed grinders,
and tractors that I’ve
tripped over all day.
They’ve sat motionless
on the fields of plywood subfloor
and an occasional plot of throw rug.

But now,
the owner/operator is back;
and work needs to be done
before the twilight
of supper settles in ...
and an evening of television stars
in a night sky
through an electric window.

But he’s farming now
at my feet.
As real as this activity is for him,
it must be me
whose head is in the clouds
as I move through the house
and peer down
at the miniature activities
taking place on the floor level.

Empty vinyl milk cartons
will hold
the grain he has harvested,
and his see-corn cap announces
the current favorite.


He’s farming
at my feet,
in a world he’s created
out of Christmas presents,
birthday gifts,
and an occasional reward
for a good report card.

Tomorrow morning,
after he stands in a mirror
and brushes his flattop,
he’ll come over to hug me good-bye
a few inches higher
than he could reach last year.
I understand what all this
farming is producing.

I have a son
who is no taller than a ditch weed
yet whose eyes
are on elevations much higher
than the September corn
around our home ...
and he’s going to get there
farming ...
at my feet.

By David Williamson