clarakatalin

Could you be a farmer? 
And leave the city, all secure,
Venture where it all depends
On God — and not on you?

But your hard work,
You’d never shirk,
If you were not to starve.

With breaking backs
Or robot machines,
You’d till the soil
By any means

To strain out, or  
If the soil was rich —
Abundant food
That modern souls

Have not a clue —
The labor that
Our ancestors knew.

With sweating brows
And muscles that ached
From dawn to dusk,
For survival’s sake.

But surely there were
Good times, too.

The love of God,
The love of friends.
Quiet evenings,
As winter descends.

I’ve only read of farms in books,
The tales of homesteads,
Of babbling brooks —

Of Little Houses on the Prairie,
Of wild animals to be wary,
Of building cabins with bare hands,
Of bravely living off the land.

It’s a dream that might never be —
Still, younger folk can start, bravely.
Alas, old me, not strong enough —
Those people were made of sterner stuff.

I’ll keep on dreaming, and till my little plot.
Little dreams, too, can mean a lot.