The Farmer

THE FARMER The farmer wakes before the sun, when silver fields are breathing slow, he puts his old brown jacket on and walks where only shadows go. The morning hangs upon the trees, a quiet fire behind the hill, he hears a language in the breeze the city never learned to feel. Oh, farmer, take your time, the earth is turning anyway. Leave your worries on the line, let the wind carry them away. A rusty tractor sleeps in blue, the crows are circling overhead, the sky dissolves from grey to gold, while clouds grow flowers in his head. He plants his dreams beneath the ground, not knowing what they’re going to be, and every seed without a sound becomes a small eternity. Maybe time is just a field, maybe we are passing rain, maybe everything we lose comes around as green again. Oh, farmer, take your time, the earth is turning anyway. Watch the evening change its mind, and let the daylight fade away. The farmer walks back home alone, beneath a violet evening star… the fields keep breathing in the dark, and somewhere dreams are growing far.