In the days of grapes, in the daze of dust,
In the days of empty poverty, they moved.
From Nebraska to Citrus Sun, from turning
Dirt to turning pipe, pot, and plate.
There they set to set family in sun’s soil.
There they worked to work-up from poverty’s spoils.
There they played with sons three and
There they wept for the son lost to fire’s flame.
Among the citrus and the clay, among the turning sands,
Among the boards of pew and steeple,
Among their song’s brightest pleadings,
They lie, side by side, on a quiet mountainside
And wait for the weight of sin to rise.
© rl busséll 2019 – All rights reserved.