Family Farm

I have started sitting in on Agricultural Imagination class Wednesday nights. Three hours of farm and book talk. I enjoy it. Tonight while we listened to a 30 minute NPR program, I wrote a poem about my farm. About my family.

This farm is family.
This is where my grandfather was raised.
This is where my father was raised.
Down the road 3/4 of a mile is where I was raised.
This is where my family's heart beats.
Where my father prays against hail.
Where my grandfather asks about crop prices
Even though he hasn't been in a tractor for eight years.
This is what my father came back to.
This is what my grandfather came back to.
Sweating in the sun, freezing in the snow,
Swearing at broken machinery,
Laughing at kids standing in a line on the fences.
This is where my grandfather drove a tractor.
This is where my father drives a tractor.
This is where I drove a tractor
(Though not very well or often).
This is where hard work is deep in bones.
Where my grandfather was expected to carry on the family farm.
Where my father chose to bring his young wife to carry on the family farm.
Where I am not expected to carry on the family farm
And am thankful for that.
And even though I don't plan on moving back to the farm,
That is where my roots are.
That is where I picked apples,
That is where I hunted gophers with grandpa,
Where I picked lilacs for grandma's table,
Where I played with tractors in the driveway,
Where I fed chickens and cows and horses,
Where I watched thunderstorms from the porch.
Where I hear a father's worry and see a mother's seasonal loneliness.
This farm is a part of me,
A part of my father,
A part of my grandfather.
This farm is family. 

Until next time.