He climbed the hill,
Where the valley first greeted them,
Why, he couldn’t say,
He guessed it just a whim.
The cheese cloth was tattered,
When he unwrapped the glass.
He adjusted the lens,
To sharpen the rim of grass.
For two years now,
He’d climbed the hill.
His future in his hands.
The glass and his will.
The glass scanned the farm.
The house had been built in sod.
He had put in wooden floors.
She said a present from God.
Actually, it had been scraps,
Left from the building of the barn,
She said the scrap had been from God,
He couldn’t see the harm.
He saw movement from the barn.
His son swung out on the lift.
The girl quickly followed,
They lived in such a bliss.
He had one hundred and sixty acres,
Plowed in the valley floor.
If things went right this year,
He planned for a hundred more.
His wife stood by the clothes line.
Laundry swayed in the breeze
A sudden shift of wind,
Brought pollen that caused him to sneeze.
The glass was gently rewrapped.
Thoughts of more cloth came to him.
He strolled down the hill,
A trek he called a whim.
© Copyright 2016 Hamp. All rights reserved.
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