The farmer writes poems, the poet farms
Trees
Behold this hardscrabble farm
long devoid of cows
its puzzle piece fields
locking in islands of rock,
like the St. Lawrence,
my brother observed recently,
with fields for water.
See these particular fields
still hayed every summer
for how much longer
Lord knows.
On this day in mid March
look at the way
the last snow limns
each dead furrow
all of them dead straight
and parallel, pillowing
gently the narrow brown
lanes of sod
like a down comforter
with white lines of stitches.
Old Wilson Stevenson
loved horses, they say,
and staring out the window
this March morning 53 years
after his death at 90
how clearly it still shows
that he knew how to plow
and took pride in plowing well.
What more of a legacy
could a man want—
work well done
name forgotten
overgrown pastures closing in
on your performance
returning without applause
to trees?
John Scarlett
Little Tree Farm
Rossie, NY
March 13, 2013
(Printed with permission from the author.)















Without books, history is silent, literature is dumb, science is crippled, thought and speculation at a standstill. –Barbara Tuchman
amazing poem.
i was right there, here; thanks, john.
Amen.