The Farmer

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.