the poetry of Charles Fry

30 July 1996

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This morning I saw some flowers.
Some very pretty flowers on a small hill above the riverside.
I jumped off the tractor and walked over to them.
As I lean down the soft fragrance enters my lungs,
letting me breathe easier.
Carefully I lift my gloved hand to the velvet petals
who so tenderly beckon me, waving in the wind.
Even through the protective leather of my cow-hide gloves
I can almost feel their innocent softness.

But then a small petal breaks off, and slowly falls to the ground.
I stare in frustration at my awkward hands,
then raise my glance to the waiting tractor.
Yes, we've got other fields to mow right now.
A glistening tear rolls down my cheek, joining the petal on the ground.
A cry of sorrow falls from my lips,
and gathering my soul I run back to the purring tractor.
And so we work, and so we work, in the heat of the glistening sun,
as if we'd forgotten already the flowers of this morning.

So I ask you: Can such ever be forgotten?
And I can only say no, they are within me forever.
Tonight if I remember I will go back,
this time walking slowly, bare hands in my pockets.
But even if I forget, or the rain keeps me behind my walls,
still I will always remember.
For with the skin of my own gloved hands
I have reached out and touched them.
And my tear lies fallen among them forever.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry