Pastoral

Alejandrino A. Vicente

For years he has bowed to his father’s wish.
“The land is our lifeblood, you must keep it.”
Eager now to put aside time-honored bonds
and yet he knows the burden of those words.

His old man had taught him to wield the plow,
to live with threats of flood or lack of rain.
Once, before them lay a harvest gone bad,
rice stalks heavy with grain splayed on wet ground.
His father said, “Do not distrust the land
But try to read the skies for tell-tale signs.”

Now the plow and harrow lie half-hidden in the barn.
A clunky tractor rakes up stubble farm,
the motor’s whir fills the air
as heavy blades dig deep into the sod.
Uphill beanfield grown wild with tangled weeds.
The men have long since gone, lured by traders’
stories of lighter work and quick fortune.

He looks at his son, module sheets now done.
He sees his old dreams in the young boy’s eyes.