Farm, With Your Lovely, Clutching Fingers
The corn maze, mysterious hole in the back of your house, memories fuzzy in the fondly, remembered sunlight
The sun sets over the neon green fields that draw me in with the memories
That feeling of pure joy as I run barefoot, feet slapping into the pliant loam
Strike heels first.
Walk the aisle of the gravel road but hold your tounge.
Dust is in the air.
I never knew I might never taste your dust again.
Sink my hands into the damp, flattened grass.
Sit by the bonfire and wonder if our ancestors were there before us, this primal place
Walk through the dilapidated buildings painted now with cracks of red, faded to match the pallet of the landscape
Walk the corridor of the sunflowers; feel like a princess, a spy, someone to be loved.
I see my little sister hide her head behind a leaf as big as her face.
The sunflowers droop, heavy with manifested sun.
I imagined us there. You approached me first and I was surprised but happy. We kiss.
The year moves on and soon we are waisthigh in wildflowers.
Sink your toes into the soil. Feel the farmer’s fingertips in the ground, connect them to the piles of birthing dirt.
Let the sun catch your hair with its filtered rays through the purple clouds.
Watch the sun bless the fields and wish you could melt into the ground and live in the earth to get rid of the fear it will leave.
Pan back into a room.
The air is stuffy and in corners are long-legged spiders.
See teens sprawled on a brown leather couch, chairs, on the floor.
See the yellow light of the lamp and the scribbling pencils.
We break for a snack and I see you.
Skip to summer on the makeshift patio of the house.
I sit with Lynn on splintery chairs, watching the long grass sway with the light breeze.
I love this place. I love you.
The empty swingset glows in the fading light. My gaze drifts behind it…
Do you remember the mud wars you had with your friends and allowed me join?
I guess I liked you even then.
I was wearing my new clothes.
I made sure I would be on your team, or did you pick me? I don’t remember.
I didn’t care that I kneeled in the mud behind that crate making dirt clods.
You were in your element.
Then harvest time and there is a huge pile of mutated squash next to the chicken coop that was moved to your backyard last summer, I guess, I didn’t see it.
You always reminded me of Tom Sawyer or Peter Pan.
Peter Pan always had your face.
That’s why I think I liked Wendy.
Late summer and the strawberries are out.
In sixth grade I had to write a poem about a vegetable or fruit and I chose strawberries.
I always pictured yours.
I was bent over, picking, hoping to glimpse you, talk to you.
You drove by in the tractor, on the way to the compost piles or the river.
You did not wave.
I walk down the aisle of fields, holding my worn-down, black, platform flip-flops.
You taught me always to go barefoot in this sacred place.
I pick green beans. Through the vines a gaggle of girls giggle about how cute you are.
I hope you will walk by and talk to me.
I hated them for being prettier than me, more charismatic, having more access to you.
I pick beans in silence and take solace in the melee of vibrant greens around me.
Late October and my father and I are picking out pumpkins at the end of the last row near the old storage barn.
A storm is rolling in and I’m worried.
I want to see you.
We laugh and joke as the thunder rolls in. Then we leave.
I remember making mud pies with you under your proch, the white lattice fencing letting through a checkerboard of light.
I admire you, be like you.
We talk without anyone. You tell me how the world is.
I don’t want to grow up.
Walk the shareroom like a ghost.
I’ve been here so long. The hour is late.
Sit on the concrete floor.
The farm was always going to be here.
It will never ever be different or replaced.
I always thought I would be the one leaving.
I sit under a large tree in your front yard with a notebook.
You roll up the drive in a carfull of teenagers that are boisterous and brilliant.
I slink around the house to avoid you and your friends.
You do not notice me.
In a workshop, I’m asked to describe the farm.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
How dare it close?
The farm is where my soul is at peace.
How dare it draw me in with its welcoming, promising, lovely fingers?
How dare it raise me on kindness, simple beauty and a friendlier world?
How could it leave me?
The sun sets over the neon green fields that draw me in with the memories
That feeling of pure joy as I run barefoot, feet slapping into the pliant loam
Strike heels first.
Walk the aisle of the gravel road but hold your tounge.
Dust is in the air.
I never knew I might never taste your dust again.
Sink my hands into the damp, flattened grass.
Sit by the bonfire and wonder if our ancestors were there before us, this primal place
Walk through the dilapidated buildings painted now with cracks of red, faded to match the pallet of the landscape
Walk the corridor of the sunflowers; feel like a princess, a spy, someone to be loved.
I see my little sister hide her head behind a leaf as big as her face.
The sunflowers droop, heavy with manifested sun.
I imagined us there. You approached me first and I was surprised but happy. We kiss.
The year moves on and soon we are waisthigh in wildflowers.
Sink your toes into the soil. Feel the farmer’s fingertips in the ground, connect them to the piles of birthing dirt.
Let the sun catch your hair with its filtered rays through the purple clouds.
Watch the sun bless the fields and wish you could melt into the ground and live in the earth to get rid of the fear it will leave.
Pan back into a room.
The air is stuffy and in corners are long-legged spiders.
See teens sprawled on a brown leather couch, chairs, on the floor.
See the yellow light of the lamp and the scribbling pencils.
We break for a snack and I see you.
Skip to summer on the makeshift patio of the house.
I sit with Lynn on splintery chairs, watching the long grass sway with the light breeze.
I love this place. I love you.
The empty swingset glows in the fading light. My gaze drifts behind it…
Do you remember the mud wars you had with your friends and allowed me join?
I guess I liked you even then.
I was wearing my new clothes.
I made sure I would be on your team, or did you pick me? I don’t remember.
I didn’t care that I kneeled in the mud behind that crate making dirt clods.
You were in your element.
Then harvest time and there is a huge pile of mutated squash next to the chicken coop that was moved to your backyard last summer, I guess, I didn’t see it.
You always reminded me of Tom Sawyer or Peter Pan.
Peter Pan always had your face.
That’s why I think I liked Wendy.
Late summer and the strawberries are out.
In sixth grade I had to write a poem about a vegetable or fruit and I chose strawberries.
I always pictured yours.
I was bent over, picking, hoping to glimpse you, talk to you.
You drove by in the tractor, on the way to the compost piles or the river.
You did not wave.
I walk down the aisle of fields, holding my worn-down, black, platform flip-flops.
You taught me always to go barefoot in this sacred place.
I pick green beans. Through the vines a gaggle of girls giggle about how cute you are.
I hope you will walk by and talk to me.
I hated them for being prettier than me, more charismatic, having more access to you.
I pick beans in silence and take solace in the melee of vibrant greens around me.
Late October and my father and I are picking out pumpkins at the end of the last row near the old storage barn.
A storm is rolling in and I’m worried.
I want to see you.
We laugh and joke as the thunder rolls in. Then we leave.
I remember making mud pies with you under your proch, the white lattice fencing letting through a checkerboard of light.
I admire you, be like you.
We talk without anyone. You tell me how the world is.
I don’t want to grow up.
Walk the shareroom like a ghost.
I’ve been here so long. The hour is late.
Sit on the concrete floor.
The farm was always going to be here.
It will never ever be different or replaced.
I always thought I would be the one leaving.
I sit under a large tree in your front yard with a notebook.
You roll up the drive in a carfull of teenagers that are boisterous and brilliant.
I slink around the house to avoid you and your friends.
You do not notice me.
In a workshop, I’m asked to describe the farm.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
How dare it close?
The farm is where my soul is at peace.
How dare it draw me in with its welcoming, promising, lovely fingers?
How dare it raise me on kindness, simple beauty and a friendlier world?
How could it leave me?
♠ ♠ ♠
The Foodbank just closed and with it the doors of my childhood. It might be closed, but I still need closure. This poem is a way for me share my experience with the farm. It's the only way to feel better aside from forgetting it.To give you an idea about how special it was, I always called it "the farm" like it was the only farm in the world. I never knew the real name of the farm until someone asked me "What farm are you talking about?". Then I had to ask my parents. To me "the farm" and a farm were separate.