The funeral ended, I sought solitude,
on petrified planks in his cold, empty barn,
transported to times of memories faded,
when he stood as a giant before childish eyes.
Wooden beams, hand chiseled, fitted together,
by strong arms and tackle, holding framework firm,
through rain storms, blizzards and changes of seasons,
retained in position over two hundred years.
He once stood as I, after grandfather died,
perhaps with emotions similar to mine,
while thinking of soil and its meaning to him,
as he viewed the patina of harvest and sweat.
My life is different, fast paced and hectic,
as lawyer with office, contracts and clients,
in city center, stressful and demanding,
requiring allegiance and greater achievements.
But ancestral echoes grow louder with time,
beckon and chasten the next generation
to honor the past with resolutions new,
so I hear and answer. “I’ll come back to the farm.”
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