Farming

My father grew up on a farm in Illinois. 
His three brothers all became farmers.
That is what they knew.
He rebelled and became a minister. 

As to myself, from the age of ten, 
I planted and cultivated a garden 

for about five years. 
It occupied two city lots. 

I dearly loved working with my grandmother 
or, if alone, 
would sometimes sing to myself.
My singing embarrassed my mother.

I thought about becoming a farmer.
My uncle shut that off. 
Said I didn’t have enough money.
So, instead, I became a poet. 

Now I’m growing poems. 
If that seems strange, 
then think about writing as ploughing 
or planting grain.

Then, remember what once was called “threshing.”
Think of the dust created! 
The mess! The muss!
The necessity of constant rewriting

as a kind of weeding to keep images clean.
Think how often young crops are lost 
before they ripen,
destroyed by hail or frost.

So I still think of myself as a farmer, 
the gambles made
against insects and inclement weather,

also the grace
needed to get products to market 
when the time is right. 

It can certainly make you old! 
But also bold…as every good farmer must be.