Farmer

My fields stretch to the horizon.
Hills there are blue,
shadowed humps in the afternoon haze.

I work alone.
No source to which I can appeal,
if I need, for wisdom.

Every choice I make is my own.

The river flows ever anew,
but is the same old view.

I have never been asked about skills,
or, perhaps, enhancements.
Each year
there’s a new set of chances.

I stand and pull on my pants, put work shoes on,
position my hands on the plow.
I do not look back.

Luke 9:62