| April 3, 2013 | Comments (0)








(Another photo from my  visit to the country last weekend  continues to resonate, causing me to write this sad verse.)


It’s quiet.

Winter’s over.

Hunters with their pop-pop rifles

No longer tramp my acres,

Their dogs straining and  yapping.

My ground is hard,

Not yet ready for

The gnawing plow

That will chew my soil

For hay planting.

And corn-raising.

These two hundred years

I have been harvested,

Giving grain and food

To those who woo me.

Old wagon tracks

Cut  across me

Like a lovely necklace.

If you listen carefully

You can  hear

The squeak of  wheels

From long ago.

I was a fertile provider

Before Lincoln gave

His Gettysburg address.

In my prime,

Indians crouched in trees

by the creek near our farm.

Yesterday I was visited

By serious men in suits

With clip boards.

They measured me,

And there was a shake of hands.

I heard from my neighbor,

The grapevine

That I will be sold and

The farm will  no longer be

A farm.

Those men mentioned

The word “shopping center.”

They said I would make

A perfect parking lot.

One hundred cars could fit

On the gentle grass

That covers me.

But how can I breathe

If I am covered with asphalt ?

So I bid you farewell.

You may laugh

When I say,  “It’s been grand

Being a field.”

But it’s true.

There’s nothing better

Than being a field.




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