The sod of hard worked fields lies embedded
in cracks caused by hours in the summer sun.
The same cracks marked the face of his only son
with a force that left his eyes reddened and wet
with tears. His son cannot wash the dirt
from those unearned cracks. His hands, farmer's hands,
are tough and hug the grains like precious sands
in an hourglass. He can not wash the hurt
from his son's eyes, eyes that will not foregive
the nights lived in fear of making noise.
Eyes that are crazed from living on the brink
of love and approval. Now they live
without the memory of children's toys.
Dreams wash down the drain of an old cracked sink.
**Author's note: Have been super busy at work. This is another of my poems from college.