William Barnhill

The sky broke today;
Clouds cracked and opened up into floods.
On the horizon torrent sheets, stretching from ceiling to ground, begin to run;
Across fields and forest the deluge foretold;
Sun baked earth that lay in sterile hot silence;
Suddenly became dotted by marble size drops;
Leaving black stains, freeing up the smells of grass root and earth.

Distant rumbles echo over hill and valley;
Somewhere on high freight trains collide in a twisting crash;
The wind races before the storm past every leaf and blade of grass;
Making frantic rustling as it passes through stands of Maple, Birch and poplar;
Blinding streaks of white light touch the earth in grinding bursts;
The air crackles with electricity; wisps of ozone permeate the moment.

By fields end, close to forest's edge;
Old cottage is in mourning for those who first founded these acres;
In front of the structure a tractors motor steams;
Touched by heavens fountain, revealing once again its green color;
A tin roof with rusty stripes of ochre and red, covers a single room;
The driver has escaped there from the wetness;

Seeking refuge in the cobwebed darkness of this shelter.
Outside, the torment pushes towards full force;
Windows, cracked, dusty and worn, begin to streak and clear;
Spiders, with homes upon a window sill, scurry to higher ground;
Running from rain drops that have found a hole;
A hole in the glass made by a stone;
Thrown by the hand of a youth many years ago.

He sits in silence as the storm rages on;
An over turned bucket his perch;
Hands hang between faded denim legs;
Dangling at the end of forearms;
Worn and weathered by the many sun scorched furrows covered.
His old leather boots rest flat upon the warped pine floor;
Stained dark with lamp oil and coal dust.
Reaching deep within tattered overalls he pulls a freshly laundered bright blue
handkerchief;

Wiping the cold sweat and grass seed from the back of his neck;
Staring down at those hands, his connection with life.
These were the hands that grasped his mothers face, at his first knowing;
She rocky him gently in her arms and sung a lullaby.
These were the hands that held on to his father's back pockets;
As His father plowed his way through these same fields;

These were the hands that threw a stone through a window and grasped the
hand of his grandfather;
They would walk the forest's edge together in early spring.
These were the hands that held his sweet heart;
They took an oath and forged a bond that lasted a life time.
These were the hands that held his first born as he stared into the eyes of his
immortality.

He could not explain his life in more then what he had seen and done;
A simple man who cut the earth and understood;
He understood as did his father;
With care and good fortune from the spirit in the rain;
The harvest would be assured;
All things that have been sewn will eventually be reaped;
Returning to the beginning, as all things must;
Completing the great cycle of the great plan.

The rain slowed to a steady pace;
A tired back leans against the crumbling cottage wall.
Old eyes close, weathered hands lay peacefully folded in the cup of his
wrinkled lap;
He dreams;
He dreams of warm days of sunshine and tall green corn;
He dreams of a stream deep with in the woods,
A stream he visited as a child;

Along its banks sweet honey suckle grew;
He dreams as he always did, that he was flying above it all.
Through the clouds that drifted in the sunshine he could see the fields below;
Stretching out before him as he once could see his life.
Now, in his dream he saw the end of the fields;
Where they stopped there was only sun light and rainbows against blue sky;

Blue sky filled with milky clouds, blue sky filled with peace and rest;
In this dream he reached the rainbow;
Feeling the cold spray of the misting droplets, he passed beyond;
Beyond the fields, beyond the farm, beyond the crest of the farthest hill;
Becoming one with it all, becoming one with the spirit in the rain.