Something about his face
took topographical semblance
to the soil where he toiled.

Each year plowed furrows deeper in brow;
erosion took his body like the backfield.

Weather worked both man and land
Head and hand and heart.

Crops rotated like the season.
Prayers were as sure as chores.
He made love to his farm more
than to his wife Frannie.

He planted his seed, instilled hope,
coddled and prompted
progress into being.

“Just a farmer.”
What a misnomer
for a man at one with the earth.



Fragrance of heirloom roses veils the air
where Eden could have been.
There’s green—all thousand shades—
Light, dark and in-between:
fescue grass, sugar maple trees,
a slipping hillside stream.
Lamps loll, then leap.
Birds gather to worship;
Even the serpent keeps silent.
Here, near Heaven’s best,
the moon is opal in a star-strewn sky.
Peace lilies bloom to the wind’s lullaby
And my bleeding heart finds rest.


Sandi Keaton-Wilson, a published writer of prose, poetry, plays, and performance pieces, resides in Somerset, Kentucky. She lives a simple Christian life enjoying worship, family, friends, and the arts. Always a nature lover, she considers reading and writing her second nature.