Walking along the fields of the old family farm,

observing the crops waving in the summer breeze,

I stop and rest at the old ranch gate.

Standing alone on the edge of a pasture,

I let my elbows rest on the faded fibers of wood.

I hold out my hand to feel the summer breeze.

I watch the swing hanging below a sycamore tree.

Swaying at a rhythm against the breeze,

it makes me remember the days 

when we pushed each other on this swing.

Sitting with you on the edge of the pasture, 

I still see you smile with the sunflowers.

I remember you with a cross,

that sits under our sycamore tree.