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

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 22nd, 2009 at 6:33 pm and is filed under Poems by Carl. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.