i've never wanted to be a farmer,
but now i know how they feel
when they lean upon the weathered
rail and look out over row after
perfect row of crop
worked to maturity
in winter, the field
was a sleeping bear
waiting to feel the plow
scratch his back
spring and summer became
a labor of hope
fertilize, plant, protect
create
and now, though still there
is work to be done
there is a moment to pause,
to reflect and know well-being
i've never wanted to be a carpenter
a cook, a designer of bridges,
but i know how they feel
when the table is set,
the house first knows life
and the bridge carries
her first car to the other side
maybe the potatoes will know lumps
the house, drafts of cold, and
the bridge, a bump or two
but perfection was always fantasy
ten dollars short of character
i've always envied the man
who sits on his porch watching
his lawn of weeds grow ugly,
watches the world go by
in passing
so i became him
losing the seasons
and the purpose in them
until my neighbor became
a rose
and i rediscovered
the labor of hope
