the dirt farmer

dirt farmer—old, sweaty, dirt farmer,

crawling in those thick weeds,

seven years of that pulling,

each year they spread seed.

from there in the garden, manicuring colored rails,

order, form, and predictability superficially veils

the dirt farmer’s truth, that the work that he does pales

when compared, to nature’s own, hidden detail.

above, in, and under the dirt on his face,

the earth churns and toils at it’s own frantic pace.

if he stopped for some time, ordering this chaos, that he temporarily maintains,

the whole farm would be swallowed, turned back into forest, with a few season’s rain.

his work in the garden, he learned over time,

not from thick books, but from trying to find

how far to push nature without crossing the line.

how much to take, while remaining benign. 

his knowings unwhole, some facts but a guess,

each season’s follies, he’ll try to digest

another tiny hint of what’s hidden beneath,

as the true magic and work happens below his two feet.