In the Farmer's Song

so, i got to thinking about all those words planted in my language where fertility grew them to leave and stalk and pod the farmer's words scatter my fields like seed on clod watered by thundering flashes awash, fertilized and germinating progeny seedlings, my own growth in some time-lapse photography writhing their creamy roots into earthy loam and droning on through a summer daze into fruits of sweaty labors on humid chlorophylled days silks sultry green, stalking me through rows and rows as far as i can see, if i squint the farmer, suspended in time stands with his hands in pocket or on some implement toed to soil and surveys life's prospects for this season, before the days bake the green back into the humus and the cornucopia spills the field and orchard this verse of the farmer's song picked and stowed away cool eyes closed now, ears gently strain to hear, worldly phrasing come from where? my larder or some ancestor gleaning meaning and dropping it into her apron to carry home to hungry minds to feed them something of today and sustain them through a fallow solstice and the chilled breeze any cultivation harvested over picked clean and harrowed flat nearly time to plow it under again while the farmer gazes the horizon and sips something in his cup © Goode Guy 2011-08-22