These Hazy Days

A Farmer's Poem

Nothing to me is quite as grounding
   as the feeling of earth in my hands.
My trade is an old one.
I've known this land for years, just like
   the people before me knew it, and
   the generation that lived before them.

These bonds are deep.
These nights are quiet.
Summer is folding gently into autumn;
   it will be harvest time here soon.

The moon shines through the cold damp evenings
   while leaves and apples fall.
The goats are asleep between warm bales.
The chickens dream from their roosts.

When morning comes it will be just
   as extraordinary as the last,
   if not more.
For when the sun dawns,
   I know it is time to till the patches,
   to let the hens range freely in the field,
   to check in on the goats and sheep,
   and share the profits of fruit and root
   with the world that leans on us.