Stories

Stories

We watched you slowly leave us,
moaning your song at times.
And now you also grieve us,
turning to hear the chimes.

We stood around your death bed,
telling your stories of love,
And then we scratched your dry head,
lifting you up from above.

We heard the stories about you,
amid the beeps and alarms.
Your family and friends were the hue,
painting the scene of your farms.

You grew your corn and your beans,
your cows and your pigs and your hens,
But you would use any means,
to be the farmer of friends.