the Poetics of Farming

The first farmers came

two hundred years ago

bringing wealth to buy land

so their riches would grow

and they did.

Farming through generations
some stayed, others returned
to plant their roots
in the soil they yearned

to plow.

The farms got smaller
as land was parceled
farming in patchwork
became one more hassle

they dealt with.

Now, the last lonely farmer,
farms not for wealth,
not for status and certainly
not for his health

or hers.

She farms for the feel
of soft clay beneath her nails
for the smells after rain
from the stalls and the bales,

steaming.

He farms for the feeling
of skin coated in salt
from the sweat that rewards
a day without fault

of anyone.

They farm because of
breakdowns and frozen pipes,
too much rain, a tough drought,
a calf, who dies in the night;

repairable.

These are the simple fixes
of a simple life you cannot buy;
they farm for the luxury
to hold their heads high

most days.

He is never dim-witted
yet he holds no degree
he is a master of faith
and deep philosophy

of God and nature.

She knows her place
to work the land
for the world to eat
from her own tired hand

gratefully.

He knows he keeps
the land open and free
he maintains its health
and the scenery

for everyone else.

She feels secure
to know the land is wealth
for her children’s houses
or to sell for her health

someday.

He is unnerved
at price fluctuations
for land, corn and milk
and insecure mortgages;

feeling shame.