farmer: old picture, new words.

i can no longer remember the names
of the dogs that slept loudly in homemade pens
nestling restlessly in torn up paper
from the hands of my father
or my father’s secretary.
i can see faces, dog’s faces
and hear the leathery snap of my grandfather’s hand
but i no longer know their names.
the father of my father,
quick to anger
(in general)
quick to forgive
(me, when i broke his homemade fence
or peed my pants while i played with my cousin).
he learned how to drive
a whip (for his sons)
a car (for his wife)
a tractor (for his trade)
angry words (for his family)
kind words (for his neighbor).
his most loyal companions
would pile quail at his feet
and beg for some love.
he was always quick to give it to them.
he knew them.
his wife, slow to anger, quick to love;
he didn’t know what to do with her.
she was the caretaker
and the day her leg was hurt in the barn
he didn’t know what to do.
he watched, frantically.
he watched slowly.
he watched my mother’s hands,
ones i had always known to be gentle.
what is gentle to a farmer?