Farm Poem 8

//Farm Poem 8

Farm Poem 8

Spring is never as we remember it:
Too soon, too hot, too dry, too cold —
Forgetting that the earth wobbles,
What sort of spring do we seek?

The one we’re convinced we recall
Twenty years ago when
The smell of fresh cut grass
Daydreamed itself through the parted window

And into pre-Algebra,
Two fifteen in the afternoon;
Then, when the arrival of spring meant
One day beneath the cold flat stone

The salamanders weren’t there,
But the next, beautifully, they were.

By | 2019-03-18T22:20:48-04:00 March 18th, 2019|Farm|3 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.


  1. Mary Martin March 19, 2019 at 7:07 am - Reply

    Not only do I look forward in but also reading your weekly poems. I love to visualize the content as I read. Thank you

  2. eliot brenner March 19, 2019 at 8:54 am - Reply

    Nicely done. Puts me in mind if the days about 60-plus years ago playing by a creek in my neighborhood.

  3. Margaret Kertess March 19, 2019 at 7:32 pm - Reply


    Your poems are becoming a highlight of my week. I’m too lazy to respond to each one individually, but every one resonates in a surprising and comforting way. I don’t know how a hard-working farmer finds the time to distill these insights so eloquently, but I’m very grateful!

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