She was his Carolina lily, / born down South when he was nine, / a farm boy from up North / on the Susquehanna.
They met in college, / her on the fast track, / him on the six- or seven-year plan, / working his way through school.
She wanted to teach; / he planned to preach / and do a little farming on the side / when they could finally settle down.
He had turned his back / on his own father’s farm, / and so going home again to PA / was pretty much out of the question.
What they finally did / was settle on one hilly acre / gifted them by her poor daddy / in the land where Carolina lilies bloom.
Between Sunday sermons, / he cleared trees and tilled soil / on a second acre they bought, / giving them more elbow room.
But on a dark Tuesday in June, / he died and left his work undone, / cultivating one last harvest / on his way to the tomb.
His legacy was hard work / (or maybe it was hard luck), / never hoeing an easy row / when a rocky one could spell his doom.