Farm Poem 17

//Farm Poem 17

Farm Poem 17

The wind that starts from nowhere,
The same that bends the pasture,
Is the whispering voice of my lover;

The hollering voice of the cowherd,
Call and response to the cattle,
Is my lover’s quickened pulse;

The breath of sweet pollen,
Exhaled from May orchard grass,
Is the same as my lover’s breath;

The black hose, mistaken for
A black snake in blue grass
Is only my lover’s arm, roped over me in sleep;

The gapped boards of the barn door,
Imperfect beneath a Saturday sky,
Is my lover smiling;

The fox, darting only to turn,
Staring, ears tufted like rose buds,
Has the same ears as my listening lover;

The fireflies, flickering beneath bats,
With tree frogs trilling,
Are my lover’s eyes, observing.

By | 2019-05-20T22:45:47-04:00 May 20th, 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. Patricia Scheuerman-Bertovic May 21, 2019 at 6:23 am - Reply

    My favorite poem so far.

    • Forrest Pritchard May 28, 2019 at 11:48 am

      Ah, thanks! Sometimes they practically write themselves, effortlessly, as if plucked from the air. This was the case here.

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