I walked my field
A switch of blossoms in hand
And wondered —
How many feet have walked this land?
Three hundred years a farm
Is but a day
How many other soles have trod this way?
How many hands have cupped the soil
Smelled the loam
Led out the cows from their red wood home?
Who has planted maize and beans
By the happy stream
That bubbles out from the ground
While children played with happy sound
Among these willows?
To call this farm mine would not be true
It has belonged to the generations
And some day to you
Child who has not yet been born.
While it is yet my turn
I will love this land deeply.