The Regular Farmer

Some days, the only things holding him up
Are his suspenders.
His torn and faded jeans
Are jaggedly mended,
A testament to his stubbornness and
His confidence that fixing something he already has
Is infinitely better than buying it new-
Even if it is a little breezy in there.
Underneath his flannel shirt
His shoulders sag with the weight of a hard day’s work,
The inevitability of more weeds, and summer rain.

When it is time to slaughter the chickens,
He is startled by the unique smell of something recently living,
And marvels at the tiny stones
Which fall out of the gizzard and into his palm.
Dappled with scars and cuts,
His fingers ward off evil with a garlicy perfume.
Although his nails are stained with dirt,
His hands are gentle and sure.

At night,
Even as snow silently settles
On the brassicas in the frost-bitten fields,
The Regular Farmer dreams
Of endless hikes along white beaches and
Cramped nights in ancient shrines.
In sleep he floats through crowded streets
Where tea flows from the
Eager hands of strangers,
And the tangled words of a distant language
Tumble gracefully off his tongue.

Out in the row,
He sings to the beets,
Or passes time in silence,
Appreciating the annoyances of human company
And the songs of the red winged blackbirds
That weave and dart across the field.

Every morning,
As sure as the sun rises
He wakes
And starts his loving game
With God.
The seeds will grow
If given sunlight, water, time,
And protection from
The beetles and the foraging deer.

And still he is unsurprised.

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~ by ettaqueen on December 27, 2010.

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