man from yesteryear

a poor man’s yarn
windswept treatises
raw’ed his bones but gave him strength
this man possessed no bucket
if owned such a tin cap–its contents would have been soil not lists
earth from the earth as planted
resolved to nurture a determined forest
this portrait
this man
a father might tell his son about
a daughter–not even a warning
honorable and intended
eyes true
thoughts lustful grey not clean (he a man)
but hands in control
for sowing of the soil
I think
in my cap
by the scarred wrought iron pot lumbering over the fire
you would have loved this man
trusted him
down to his raw’ed bones
cropped Squanto