During April on the farm
I remember the wet smell
of mud and manure,
of old cornstalks in cold
rain, of rot and death
tricking me into a sense
of hopelessness when
all was hope and nothing else.
I might have felt sorrow
for the cattle or pigs,
living in their own excrement,
mud up to their knee joints.
I might have, had I not been full
of my own sorrow,
full of a sense that this
is where life leaves us off
after all.
I always forgot how the low
clouds and mud pits give way
to May and June,
to high blue skies and lilacs,
to July and August,
with dry fields where clover
munching cattle walk with ease,
to our own warm,
barefoot days,
the table full of buttered
sweet corn, fat red tomatoes,
and for now, all that sorrow
gone.
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Thank you for this eloquent description of the cycles in nature and in life . It does not flinch from going into the times of misery, but also reminds us that there is joy awaiting.
This is beautiful, heart-grabbing. I grew up in the country, now retired in a wonderful community of retired people who are supposed to be growing old but are too interesting to be thought of as old, in my mind. I do love the country, miss it, and when my husband and I take long drives into the country (at least once a week), I fantacize about buying a little farm to raise goats – which are adorable and a fantasy as well! Thank you for your poetic prose reminding me of my own warm, barefoot days.
This poem appeals to all my senses. I like the rich images and the author’s awakening as the poem progresses. It’s a great reminder of how life emerges in the midst of decay.