Fingergreen

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

Conscience

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

open

Heart.

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.

.:.