As the old man plowed in the noon day sun,
dust devils billowed toward the sky.
And sweat ran down his sun burned face,
replacing tears, he would not cry.
To proud to stop and rest awhile,
or ask for someones helping hands.
He plowed the furrows deep and straight,
and dropped his sweat onto the land.
For this he wanted for him self,
to prove his strength, d know his worth,
For all his life, he had done this thing.
He had plowed his soul into the earth.
The old horse that he called by name,
obeyed his every pull of rein.
As he bade the horse stand still,
the old man stopped his plow at will.
There in the shade of a bent old tree,
he stood and waited, resting there.
While in the distance, he watched her walk,
Across the dusty field he plowed.
a jug of water in her hand,
a lunch pail clutched in tight embrace.
The fleeting smile that touched his eyes,
would ease the pain upon his face.
But soon his lunch was done and then,
there was no time to sit and talk.
As once again he plowed the land,
ten thousands steps, that he would walk.
With face turned up towards Heaven's light,
he spoke with one that he could trust.
And in the softest voice, he ask,
Lord, help me plow this field of dust.

by Lois Cook

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