A farmer's life is measured
by the pitchforkfuls,
of hay, of manure,
of the mountain
which is each day
Working in the barn all day,
moving manure from here
Evening, and the low door opens
all by itself. Walking out the door,
I bump my head against the stars.
Life inside the stomach of a cow!
Low ceiling, pigshit smells,
moving manure from here to
Late summer hay is mid-winter joy.
The goat's eyes are filled with delicate
bells pouring over into the sweetness
of milk. A last drop and the bucket is full,
the gentle waves of a warm evening wind.
The gift of labor.
Working together on a neighbor's
farm, moving manure from here
An old wheelbarrow,
the wooden handle's worn thin
as a boneon one side onlythe
They say his older brother
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