I am the seventh generation.

The family farm
has been in the family
since the 1800’s.
The land deed
was written on leathery sheep skin.

My great-great-grandpa Orvy’s handprints
are on his hand-made red barn
and his name is carved roughly into the crumbling cement.

My great-grandpa Archie’s forever footprints
are imprinted into the fertile fields.
His tired legs trudged
behind a horse-drawn plow.

My grandpa Merle’s
hard-working hands milked cows,
morning and night.
In the blazing heat of the day
he trekked up and down the field
until his plowing was done.

My Dad
has practiced writing his name
now scratched into the old, wooden doorframes
in the small farm house.
His sweat and blood is sprinkled
around the land.

Horse prints
line our packed dirt path.
A reminder of the long trail rides
my sisters’ and I took
as laughter filled the county air.

My family—
both now and then—
have left our marks
on the farm,
and it has left many marks on our hearts.