My grandpa

I'm working on a Bible talk, looking for a particular Carl Sandburg poem. I find this one instead.

Illinois Farmer

BURY this old Illinois farmer with respect.
He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work in Illinois cornfields.
Now he goes on a long sleep.
The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels, the wind that combed his red beard zero mornings when the snow lay white on the yellow ears in the bushel basket at the corncrib,
The same wind will now blow over the place here where his hands must dream of Illinois corn.

I think of my grandfather working Illinois days and sleeping Illinois nights. I think of cornsilk and biting wind and hard yellow ears of corn. I think of a life. I'm studying Jesus' promise to return and make all things right, but dreams falling through dirty hands, kernal by kernal, seem more real.