In Grandpa's Hayloft: A Poem
Where every so often
The hottest days contain all times at once,
As if the heat melted years together to glisten
In the air like shimmering waves.
A weather-grayed rope hanging
From the tallest beam.
To catch the most breeze, strain the rope back on tiptoes
And leap from the highest hay mound
Swing seat rough under summer legs
Soaring weightless, skin
Swimming through dust moats floating crystalline.
Aging sun glinting between the barn siding,
Sweat cooling in those brief parabolas of flight
A hymn of happiness on smiling face with no words.
How, standing at the edge of the loft,
Careful! Do not slip out to the cattle yard below
You could see for miles each rolling cornfield bleeding
Into the next
The humid hills releasing car dust clouds
Long before the vehicle came into view.
And You holding each husk, every varied passing rider,
For some reason Your nearness in that barn more tangible.
To stand looking out that high loft,
Course splinterwood on my cheeks,
Is to see the church on the farthest hill with the pew
My grandparents sat in, my mother in her flower dress beside them.
Is to see the graveyard behind the church where my grandparents lie.
Is to bury my dad in that same ground.
Is to see long after how I sit alone at the headstone
The same breeze blowing summer hayloft hair
Rippling the soybean leaves before me,
This time a weighted soaring.
To stand on the hay looking out at crawling tractors
Is to know my grandpa was crushed by this same hay on a similar tractor,
“It is well with my soul” on his lips as he died.
How the disintegrating hay clung to my ankles and pricked my toes,
My grandma all those years pricking her fingers
guiding thread through the miles of fabric
Quilting our family as we all leave that farm,
Each stitch a prayer, her thin lips saying
“It is well with my soul.”
* * *
I have long been interested in nostalgia and memory. In this poem, I thought about how a place that is so vivid in the mind changes as life goes on and you return there from time to time. How experiences accumulate and the memories of them layer into the people and places we love. My family’s farm in Iowa has always been a special place, and I believe it is cultivated from the faith my grandparents had in God. He gifted them land surrounded by beauty that through the years has become a haven of peace for our large family even amidst losses and distance. While I was writing, I was reflecting on how God continues to be glorified as memories form and fade, and hope that my meager words bring praise to Him for this generous life.