Plowing in between those low hills,
turning red clay into planted fields.
Green sod furrowed into dirt,
long flumes behind the plow
showed our work.

We sweated in those brick-kiln summers,
studied each blister with aching wonder.
Stacked hay high as houses inside the barn,
Never imagined there might be life
beyond our farm.

We were young and eager to be men.
Couldn’t wait for the years way back then.
After all this time and all of these gray hairs,
I’d love one more hour, way back then and there.

H. Arnett
2/14/26