Upon this Rock

In Spring, one by one by one

We begin to gather these rocks.

Rough and solid, one day soon,

They will make our farmhouse

Solid and strong against all elements,

Human and nature, that will seek

To destroy our good family.

In summer, my rocks grow heavy,

Each with its own mood.

One says, “l.o.n.l.i.n.e.s.s.”

Another, “B.l.u.e.d D.e.p.r.e.s.s.i.o.n.”

This other, “S.e.a L.i.k.e S.a.d.n.e.s.s.”

My son’s rocks are far lighter

And more easily carried.

One says, “Fun.”

Another, “Laughter.”

This other, “Learning.”

Dozens of canvas bags later,

My wife calls to me from far away.

Worry evident in her strained voice.

“That’s enough. Let’s get back home.

“NO!!!” I scream, viewing fresh outcroppings

Of rocks in the large field afar.

“There are still rocks to gather!!!”

Loading myself with the weightiest rocks,

I struggle to see the saw mill and oak beams cut

For the support post beams for this rock

But it is distant and blurred

With each new strained and heavy step.

Drenched and blinded by sweat I see her,

My wife, pain evident on her face,

Asking why I insist on continuing

To carry these stones from the field to the new house.

My son sits on the roof of our car

Stick as gun in hand and tough-guy grin,

He monitors my retreat protectively

Observing that both my forearms

That carried him once so surely,

Quiver from the weight of these rocks.

Finally, with no daylight left,

I put the last bag of stones down,

Rest, then bring them more easily

To dump them into the tractor bed.

In Autumn, when building the farmhouse

One by one by one stone in mortar,

I notice my son’s tiny rocks

Fill the gaps in my large rocks,

While my wife’s medium rocks

Stand shoulder to shoulder

With the boulders I insisted,

Despite shaking and exhausted muscles,

Despite sweat and dirt drenches clothes,

Despite approaching darkness,

On carrying back for the farmhouse.

My ancestors were right.

Stone houses must be built once again

From one generation for future generations

As crops must be planted so food is abundant.

Standing here now in the new farmhouse

Those rocks no longer torture me so.

For rocks once gathered in Spring

Lie buried under Winter’s white snow.

And I will no longer answer them,

When they try to say the horrors they know.