Some people say that when we first started to farm our food, we stopped roaming like nomads, and became civilized beings.
He rises early in the morning
long before the crowing cock.
His stout hands milk the dairy cows
and tend the gosling flock.
But the real work of his day
begins as the sun grows high,
strapping harness onto plow-mule
to plant his corn or wheat or rye.
No other love can sway his heart
even bridesmaid's tender hand.
So primal is this sacred bond
between a farmer and his land.
Time is still, as heat beats down
and he finds his rhythm's pace.
digging in, he parts the soil
where his future crop is placed.
He grunts with honest effort,
wiping sweat across his brow.
Fertile mounds of soil spread
before his hardened steel plow.
His ever straining work mule
bucks against the leather lead,
as the bag hung from his waist
rocks and spills the precious seed.
When at last the sun droops down
and settles gently in the west
He leads his beast of burden
to its stable for a rest.
Collapsing in his bed at last
the farmer slumbers off to sleep
to dream of drenching summer rain
and the bounty he shall reap.