He rarely spent much time with flowers.
His life was surrounded by a milk bucket,
corn, radishes, and a hoe.
Cultivating something pretty was not from his teachin’.
Yet he was not unfamiliar with the ability to appreciate
the occasional new bloom.

 

Next to the barn thrived an old rose bush that His mother had planted. She had toted it from Czechoslovakia when the family ran – many long years ago.
And every spring, she as almost worshiped the bush,

for like Mom and Dad, it had survived the distant journey, many harsh Minnesota winters and had taken root to produce a flurry of beautiful buds and blooms upon the backdrop of a brisk Northern Minnesota sky.

 

George knew all the stories and kept them close;

Walking with a strong, determined gate, he could cover any room in two easy strides.
Set to task, he demonstrated remarkable skill at not only
milking, mending fences, and tending the cows but seeing to daily laundry, fine-tuning the pickup, and sharing a gentle “…good morning” en route to the town grocer.

He demonstrated the patience of a saint when for years he spoon-fed his paralytic father. (Mom had since passed some time ago.)

 

Day to day, month to month, year to year – this quiet Czechoslovakian farmer radiated a daily conviction, with few words, that his doing was supremely important.

And all the cousins, neighbors, and friends, could not help but admire him and
be bolstered by his continued personal assurance
which was, or ought to have been, the absolute necessity of anyone’s life.

Many years passed without surprise – when one day old father time arrived to the farm, unannounced, like his own father decades before.

George, the son was now discharged from every farmer’s responsibility.

Tata was gone.

 

Showing no despair or regret, George pressed ahead in solace,

as a northern sun set over the farm in a lilac-grey twilight.

With chiseled jaw, he musters a reticent smile and methodically

begins to pack up the farm.

Steadfast, earnest as bee moves from flower to flower – George
sells the cows, gifts the truck, and delivers the faded, worn, creased photograph

of dear mother into his coverall pocket.

 

A moonglow over Cromwell illuminates strong hands as the key turns the bolt that clicks to the strike plate firmly sealing old things behind the worn barn door.

 

As George steps away, million-year-old gravel crumbles underfoot

Broken from centuries of rain, snows, and long retreating glaciers 

ancient stones cajole his boots in the vain attempt to thwart the man’s progress.

But, here comes a Northland breeze whispering at his shoulder,

delivering the subtle scent of a nearby rose, blooming under the moon.  

George picks it,

And, in his departure,

 

he embraces it.