My father's farm will always be home.
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Deep inside behind the layers of life after 1985
the country will always call me back.
My imagination will always be away
from this cemented forest of asphalt and houses,
Away from the chain link maze of fences
one after the other boring.
My heart is in the plowed up soil,
The planted and irrigated summer
Where tractors sewed life into the earthen quilts
which surrounded me as a child.
I'll always feel the harvest time,
and see inside myself the ripened browning fields
of autumn cornstalks with down-turned ears
There's no sound like wind crackling through
the ready-for-harvest corn fields.
No matter where I am,
I'll always hear it calling me in October.