For the Farmer
Before the human mind could warm to itself,
The hands of the farmer had first to work,
Creating clearances in the earth's thicket:
Cut into the thorn-screens of wild briar,
Uproot the clusters of scrub-brush,
Dig out loose rock until a field emerged
Whose clay could be loosened and softened
To take seed and bring forth crops.
The earth was able to trust
The intention of the farmer's hands,
Opening it, softening it, molding it
Into a domain of shelter and nourishment.
It waits through its secluded winter
For her imagination of springtime
To feed into its darkened heart
New seeds for it to work its mind on
Until the harvest gathers and thickens
With golden corn, honey-scented hay,
Ripe red and dark purple fruit.
In her mind, her fields became presences;
The feel of their colors, the brace of their walls
Have greened her thought and tempered her heart.
Her eyes can read the animal atmosphere;
And see through their silence to sense thei minds.
Her skilled hands can glide calves and lambs to birth.
Out among her animals, in rain, cold, and snow,
Talking to them in affectionate callings
Something in her tuned to their rhythm.
In these times when geography becomes virtual
And developers urbanize the earth,
May the farmer continue to hold true ground,
keeping the intimate knowing of the clay alive,
Nourishing us with the fruits of the earth,
Serving as a custodian of that precious threshold where
The rhythm of nature with its serene pulse
And sublime patience restores our minds.
John O'Donohue
Before the human mind could warm to itself,
The hands of the farmer had first to work,
Creating clearances in the earth's thicket:
Cut into the thorn-screens of wild briar,
Uproot the clusters of scrub-brush,
Dig out loose rock until a field emerged
Whose clay could be loosened and softened
To take seed and bring forth crops.
The earth was able to trust
The intention of the farmer's hands,
Opening it, softening it, molding it
Into a domain of shelter and nourishment.
It waits through its secluded winter
For her imagination of springtime
To feed into its darkened heart
New seeds for it to work its mind on
Until the harvest gathers and thickens
With golden corn, honey-scented hay,
Ripe red and dark purple fruit.
In her mind, her fields became presences;
The feel of their colors, the brace of their walls
Have greened her thought and tempered her heart.
Her eyes can read the animal atmosphere;
And see through their silence to sense thei minds.
Her skilled hands can glide calves and lambs to birth.
Out among her animals, in rain, cold, and snow,
Talking to them in affectionate callings
Something in her tuned to their rhythm.
In these times when geography becomes virtual
And developers urbanize the earth,
May the farmer continue to hold true ground,
keeping the intimate knowing of the clay alive,
Nourishing us with the fruits of the earth,
Serving as a custodian of that precious threshold where
The rhythm of nature with its serene pulse
And sublime patience restores our minds.
John O'Donohue
1 comment:
he uses 'her'. female farmers unite. it gave me fire under my belt.... realizing how little 'farme', and females coincide. whether it be the earth or the farm... we shall have a female farmers revolution. thankyou again for your lovely words kate.
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