A-round that yellow road, where oaks and willows roam
where streams like children scream and rivers foam
upon the rocks grey with fall and lichen
upon the mountains tall and rounded, heighten
to heaven in a meadowed haze, tops touching God
and skyward storehouses laden with snow, cloud-shod
and sleet-pierced, foreign and forlorn to death,
Spy I the familiar form of my old friend.
Shocks of corn and tall grass mark his passing, a-rustle
with autumnal breeze that blows low, sometimes bustles
his old flannel and straw hat, kindling sticks and poles
to hold him steady, and rusty tin cans to scare the crows.
Solitary, mournful with his uncertain gaze and smile,
I wish him well as I pass, wish him well in my haste
to pass the place, my errand full, no time to waste
But I shall pass this way again
and tip my hat to him again.