Among the pictures I took yesterday was this -- the apparition of a long gone tobacco farmer, come back to judge this year's crop?
Every year when 'baccer's barned,
The sweet fragrance of drying leaf
Drifts on the mild September breeze
Uphill to where the old man lies
And stirs him from his well-earned rest
Amid the stones and plastic flowers.
Wakened, he wafts like thin blue smoke,
Swirls bodiless through time and space
Back to the barn -- the old home place.
He studies -- and allows at last--
Fine leaf -- should fetch a pretty price.
Right glad to see it still goes on.
The sweet fragrance of drying leaf
Drifts on the mild September breeze
Uphill to where the old man lies
And stirs him from his well-earned rest
Amid the stones and plastic flowers.
Wakened, he wafts like thin blue smoke,
Swirls bodiless through time and space
Back to the barn -- the old home place.
He studies -- and allows at last--
Fine leaf -- should fetch a pretty price.
Right glad to see it still goes on.
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