poem

The Land That Holds You

Consider the maple, the weeping willow; the long embrace of winters Soft pillow.

I look toward my window on a warm spring morn, and watch the birds Mingle near the golden corn.

I look past the mist out that small dear frame, God has gathered them And they hold my name.

The riffs and furrows that lean and roam, sign my name on deed and Loan.

After all – it is “The Land That Holds You,” caresses and enfolds you

And darkness cannot find the man who worked so deep its bounteous Span.

Where once there were many, there now is only one, but that window Still looks at the rising sun.

Worthy is the man whose work, sweat and toil is born of blood and Honor, and laid to rest under cool dark harvest soil.

So many dreams have come and gone, so many fences I have leaned Upon.

I have waited in the darkness ‘till the sky turned blue,

But truly – it is “The Land That Holds You.”

charles h buchanan 111