The farmer tills and tends the earth,
her harvest feeds our bellies
The writer, well, he feeds
our souls and that matters deeply too
With fickle seed he sows a
yield we’ll never touch or see,
yet careful please don't blunder here
thinking his crop will never be.

Farmers mend fences
They set traps to keep the wolves at bay
Negotiate with neighbours' need
And keep the house in order,
as they say,
in one piece.
Writers, though, they take this peace
and wander the collective
This is where they reap and
sow, producing stuff of ineffable nature: still
food for mind, sustaining thought, which must be
chewed with eyes, and gulped
by ears, and
viewed with open, open

The farmer needs her man, the writer,
as he needs her nurturing embrace
They share in laughter, under blankets, there
they've made balance so few mammals ever do
their actions proving more than flesh.

A working heart, green fingers,
and toes that stroke the dirt
where mind melts into feeling meet where sky
caresses water wave and Sun sways under sacred Moon
for that's how summer passes into winter
and our world can turn no other way.

Snow melts over seedlings seeded when
warm kisses pitter-patter over Gaia's rutted navel
What is a year but the briefest cosmic
absence past green no longer present?

A farmer tends and tills the earth; and
a writer meets some other need so
now let them be and grow together,
let them intertwine and I
bet we'll soon see beanstalks climb up right and
true into that place between the stars.


Green field farm windmill grass sky


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