Don Thackrey's formative years were spent on farms and ranches in the Sandhills of Nebraska, and most of his poetry reflects experiences there many years ago. He now lives in Dexter, Michigan, where he is retired from teaching and administering at the University of Michigan.
The Relic in the Weeds
A curious whim brought me back home to find
Pa's double-bottom plow. Its blades gleamed bright
In summers past, harsh-burnished by the grind
Of turning sod from dawn until last light.
Behind the barn, this relic hides in weeds,
No longer bright, nor hitched to Belgians now,
Fully retired—no commerce left with seeds.
The same with Pa: he's resting like his plow.
They struggled breaking ground that gave them life
Till Pa himself became a bright plowshare,
Knife-sharp, deep-honed with sun and rub and strife,
Devoutly plowing on, as if in prayer.
"Don't look back," Jesus to the plowman said.
Pa set his mind on furrows straight ahead.
Copyright ©2008 by Don Thackrey