The Man Born to Farming

The Man Born To Farming (WendellBerry)

The Grower of Trees, the gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into the ground and sprout
to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death
yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down
in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.
His thought passes along the row ends like a mole.
What miraculous seed has he swallowed
That the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth
Like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water
Descending in the dark?

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The funny thing about this poem, how much it speaks of the farmer, my husband, today, on our tenth anniversary, is that in the random way of life, he chanced at a visit to a friend in the middle of farm country, leaving behind the vastly different landscape of southern California for the quiet of rural Nebraska, and in so doing, found not only me (thank goodness!), but his calling in life as well.

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