Jessie B. Rittenhouse

J
Jessie B. Rittenhouse
My Father
My father was a tall man and yet the ripened rye
Would come above his shoulders, the spears shot up so high.

My father was a tall man and yet the tasseled corn
Would hide him when he cut the stalks upon a frosty morn.

The green things grew so lushly in the valley of my birth,
Where else could one witness the luxuriance of earth?

The plow would turn so rhythmically the loose, unfettered loam,
There was no need of effort to drive the coulter home.

My father walked behind his team before the sun was high,
Fine as a figure on a frieze cut sharp against the sky.

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