The Planter

The Planter

(Sower with Setting Sun)

How the sun rings 
The top of his head 
Like a giant solid halo.
The seed bag slung 
Over his right shoulder. 
How his face tilts down 
As his sowing arm 
Swings out, open hand 
Letting loose the seeds 
But where are the seeds? 
You can’t distinguish them
From the other paint drops 
In the field.  and what about 
Other parts of this field 
That is so neatly sectioned off? 
But it’s too hard to tell if 
They are planted & if planted 
What they are planted in. 
But never mind,
Let’s have another beer
And concentrate on that sun, 
That setting sun is important, 
After all, vincent called it, 
Sower with Setting Sun. 
I chose to call my poem 
“The Planter” but i too feel 
That the sun is important.
The sun has painted the sky 
A golden hue. 
A naked tree looms 
In front of the planter, 
A dying tree.  
His house sits back 
Off to the left 
Of the fields, 
A long walk, 
He is getting tired, 
And as soon as the sun 
Sinks behind that blue line, 
He will have relieved himself 
Of all his seeds 
And head home to supper.