Meanwhile her daughter, the writer, sits on her porch in the sunshine, drinking tea. This is the perennial story of our lives together, my mother and I. And because I honor and revere the quiet and diligent and important good work she does, here is a Mary Ruefle poem about farming on this perfect mid-August morning.
|Jean-Fracois Millet, "Las Espigadoras." 1857|
My Life as a Farmer
by James Dean
(by Mary Ruefle)
Being a farmer is the loneliest thing in the world.
The field is like a religion you dedicate yourself
to, and when there's a cloudburst you can't be
elsewhere. Hopefulness and a worrisome nature
are among the attributes of a basically farming man.
You're all alone with your seeds and your concentration.
You don't have time to see friends and it's not for them
to understand. You don't have anybody, only a pig
and some chickens, and you have to think for them.
You're all alone with their feed and your concentration
and that's all you have. You're a farmer.