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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