taking a morning ride
to the dump
more discarding of things too broken to use
or save, or give away
Rick takes a longer route
avoiding the highway with the pickup full
the dump is not
a lovely place
but the ride, yes here
on the prairies late July
boasts of her crops
even in this year where farmers dread
the latest weather reports
the fields live and breathe
with a timing all their own
in farm country, the land's rhythm
overrules clocks and schedules
but feels right, more sensible
than the pressure rush
man creates in the city
for no good reason at all
I have grown to love this, here
even as I prepare to leave
for rhythms still unknown
Listen to me now.
Give me your closest attention.
Do farmers plow and plow and do nothing but plow?
Or harrow and harrow and do nothing but harrow?
After they've prepared the ground, don’t they plant?
Don’t they scatter dill and spread cumin,
Plant wheat and barley in the fields
and raspberries along the borders?
They know exactly what to do and when to do it.
Their God is their teacher.
And at the harvest, the delicate herbs and spices,
the dill and cumin, are treated delicately.
On the other hand, wheat is threshed and milled, but still not endlessly.
The farmer knows how to treat each kind of grain.
He’s learned it all from God-of-the-Angel-Armies,
who knows everything about when and how and where.
