Earthwise Farm and Forest

When I was young it was a potato field,
They grew hay there before that.
A quarter acre glacial terrace,
Never quite washed away.

A decade ago I started working here,
It was growing saplings then.
I cut and burned brush,
And pulled roots and picked stone.

With the horses and steers I plowed,
Spread manure, harrowed, and cultivated.
With my wife I planned, and planted.
Struggled, fought, wondered, and hoped.

I have picked bugs, and pulled weeds,
Picked more stone, and hoed hills.
In cold rain, wet snow, drizzle and fog,
At dusk, or at dawn, and in hot summer sun.

I have worked with the soil, and with plants,
And I have found both feast and failure.

These thoughts come to me as I kneel in mud,
Freshly softened by the warmth of early spring.
I push my fingers into the cold slimy soil,
And grasp, twist, and pull each perfect parsnip.

I can’t wait to bring in this harvest,
The first crop of the year, a true success.
With both hands I hold them, heading for home,
Overwhelmed by the sweet fragrance of edible Earth.

Power pours through my arms, these are not mere roots,
I feel pain and stiffness dissolve, throughout.
Just then, the brook bellows from below.
And songbirds sing down from tree tops.

I listen to them, and I smile,
From deep inside, I feel it now.
It is not me who has made this field,
But this field that has made me.    C.B.R 3/28/9

Grok!!!
Too-Dlunk!!!
Raven calls, Welcome.

It is the place,
where to you it’s clear,
but to them it’s foggy,
where to you it’s a crack
the breadth of a hair,
but to them it is an abyss.
You see the knowledge,
and truths that reside there.
Others are afraid and retreat,
they may frustrate you,
but enter alone,
and travel freely,
among the mysteries.
When you return,
they will hear you.

Grok!!
Too-Dlunk!!
C.B.R. 1/97 for Milo.

Conceived, born, and raised on this land,
the farm of your dam.
Where you tested your feet,
and found your first teat.
Many years had passed,
since they’d seen the last,
Jersey bull hazing,
this hillside grazing.
From you period of toil,
the wind, water and soil,
of Gilead are within you.

We are not taking this life,
or energy from you,
it will always be yours.
We merely use it now,
to feed our bodies,
and to fuel or minds,
to manifest our dreams,
and to empower our values,
to perpetuate the care of this land,
and your kin who will follow.

Through you we touch this soil,
to the very heart and spirit of the Earth.
You help us to be part of the system,
allowing us to become products of our own work.

C.B.R. 4/93

The other day I met a man,
it was a meeting I did not plan.
He appeared to me for just an instant,
from a place I felt was distant.

There have been other times,
that I am sure I’ve seen his signs,
the meanings of which I learned to read,
but on this day he came to lead.

I hadn’t asked but he lent his hand,
and showed the marks left on the land.
Up along the trail he led,
and found the spot to park the sled.

It was one of those days when things went right.
The work was hard, but the load seemed light.
The logs just rolled with the greatest ease,
as if they floated on the breeze.

The steers stood chained to their tree,
and chewed their cud and looked at me.
I’m not too sure just what they thought,
but to me his visit meant a lot.
C.B.R 10/94

I like to watch,
the gulls as they fly,
along the edge of an incoming wave.
They rise,
then dip to within a foot,
and glide,
the entire length of the beach.
Moving only slightly,
with occasional wing-beats,
each flight is so smooth,
as if it were the stroke of an artist’s hand,
as she traces each wave,
and stone,
or bubble of foam.
Then adds shades of tan,
green, white,  silver and blue.
What divine pleasure,
to watch the master at her craft.

C.B.R. 7/95

Honey-Moon Eclipse

Sometimes in the night,
there is a light,
that shines just right,
but not too bright,
to see the sight,
of a million sprite,
taking flight,
not from fright,
nor for mite,
but in delight,
so that we might,
get the insight,
to enjoy it.
C.B.R.  11/97