My Father's Land

The land is level many miles around Lynn Grove;
I can stand on the porch of any store
And see the houses of my kinsmen clustered in a drove
And know that clumps of trees obscure that many more.

This is the land they chose to make their heritage;
They cut the trees and underbrush and burned new ground;
They planted corn, tobacco, fruit trees on the eastern ridge;
They followed mules down long rough furrows, then back around.

From summer hay they fed their cattle in the winter night,
And burned the short-cut hickory lengths for making breads;
They tied tobacco hands when it had seasoned right
Then traded it for seeds to plant in new spring beds.

My father’s kin have used this portion of Kentucky well.
Its yield is good and back into the rich black loam
Have gone the used-up bodies of the men whose children still
Plant and harvest, die and leave their sons this home.