By Tom Brosman
The big white-tail bounded into the woods
As the Farmer drove his fields to check his crops.
The growing hay was green and fresh,
Shimmering in the sun, with the irrigation water
Covering the ground.
The man was strong and weather shaped
With jeans, mended shirt and leather boots.
From the tough exterior of the man
Came his care and nurture for the land.
A deep intimacy with the crops and the seasons.
His father was a carpenter
Who let the plane and the level shape his life.
With every building erected, his sense of self grew
Until the last building, his gravestone,
Completed his sojourn and blessed his journey.
As the Farmer looked over the land,
He felt the strength of his sires
And the fire of his dams.
Those who leant life to him…
Those who leant the land to him…
Life for him was a force that flowed
Through generations, crops, timber and lives,
Never diminishing, nourishing, healing.
His soul was the Land
And the land was his mother.