Farm Poem 15

//Farm Poem 15

Farm Poem 15

The master craftsman shot his
Netflix sizzle reel
In my barn last month;

The brewmaster pitched me on
Economic leverage
In downtown New Carrolton;

The master chef led a group of
Inchoate consumers
Past my market stand;

The pit master praised
His barbecue sauce,
Insisting I taste his tang;

And the master gardener paused,
Looking askance when I posited:
“No one ever says ‘farm master’”,

To which she replied,
(Too quickly, too eagerly, I felt)
“I’ll be the first to start.”

I shook my head.
“That will be, I’d wager,
A lonely compost hill upon which to die.

Though on the bright side,” I added,
“You wouldn’t have far to go.”
She stared meekly at this, nonplussed,

Implying I have yet to master
Gardening jokes. Or much at all,
So far as I can tell—

Yet I see the grass silently
Bandaging the soil;
The ewe plucking honeysuckle shoots,

Succulent, nourishing;
The hive shuddering
Joyfully at the locust bloom.

What a practice, to lose myself
To each day,
An apprentice on my own farm.

How serene not to know,
To be a master of none, and,
At each dew-soaked dawn, of nothing.

By | 2019-05-07T07:16:04-04:00 May 6th, 2019|Farm|2 Comments

About the Author:

Forrest Pritchard is a full-time sustainable farmer and New York Times bestselling author, holding a BA in English and a BS in Geology from William & Mary. Smith Meadows, his farm, was one of the first “grass finished” operations in the country, and has sold at leading farmers’ markets in the Washington DC area for two decades. Pritchard's books have received starred reviews from The Washington Post, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, NPR, and more.

2 Comments

  1. Susanne May 7, 2019 at 8:43 am - Reply

    This is beautiful and profound.

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