That Old Man

I watched him wading through waves of grass. His sunlit skin, from top to chin, was creased. His gaze was wide as the prairie skies. His crinkled eyes scanned the bladed sea As if for something he’d find out there. He said naught if he searched the long ago; Or if he saw storm clouds yet to come; Or if he felt the fallow ground was ripe To plow and plant the harvest grains again. He did not say what was on his mind, But tipped his hat and smiled, and walked on by, A sweaty red bandana dripping From a pocket of his old blue jeans. I have scanned the prairie skies much since then. I’ve probably seen the things he saw. And I smile as if for sure I know As I turn back to the house again, A faded red bandana in my jeans.