Nestled inland from the lake
the old farm napped in noon-day heat.
A few cows grazed in unplowed fields
on grass knee-high, lush green and sweet.

"They're spoiled you know," my grandpa said,
"but, oh, their milk is good, eh, gal?"
I grinned because I loved it cold
straight from its source au naturel.

Standing near a short wire fence
and shaded by a pecan tree,
I held his hand and gazed at them
while they chewed cud contentedly.

A ways across their pasture stood
a weathered barn with open doors.
Inside, its loft was filled with hay,
much spillage on well-trodden floors.

I'll not forget those summer days
spent on the farm, that cow-filled land.
But sadly what I miss the most
are Grandpa's talks, his gentle hand