Sunday, December 7, 2014

A love letter to my husband

We are farmers. We are young; the future, the changing tide. We believe in the natural world, the magic it contains. We are not afraid to work, to dirty our hands, to break our backs. Our days are long. The sun, our luminary. It streaks our hair gold and platinum. It bleaches our clothes, freckles our arms, burns our shoulders.  So consumed are we by our work, that we often forget to feed ourselves, relieve ourselves or rest. The soil is calling; people are hungry. We must work.

We are farmers. Our labors are tangible, rewarding, and transcendent. The perfect row of broccoli straight and tall, healthy children, toned muscles, a full plate. Nesting swallows, speckled eggs, bean pods plump and thick.

We are farmers. The people we serve are our friends, our neighbors, strangers, children, pets. They all come. They come with baskets, bags, barehanded and unprepared. They leave with a meal, a snack, a smile, a miracle. And they are grateful.

We are farmers. Our faces are many. Our skills are countless. Bookkeeper, businessman, mechanic, mathematician.  Plumber, engineer, parent and spouse.  Master of all, regarded for none. We are written off, unappreciated, under respected.  Yet we remain, brilliant and constant in our earth-bound orbit. Our love is our gravity.

We are farmers. We rejoice in the harvest, pray to the clouds, beat our chests and pull at our hair. We cry with exhaustion, cry in confusion, disappointment and sorrow. There are not enough hours for the work that must be done. And it all must be done.

The summer is coming. It never really ends. The seeds wait and we wait with them. For the sunshine, the rain, the soft light of springtime and the fading edges of fall.

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