The Farm

Ted says that ever since

I told him to not put

wind turbines up at the farm,

he has not wanted to put

wind turbines up at the farm.

My mom remarks: "No easy

retirement for you," and Beth

giggles and rolls her eyes.

I think perhaps Ted has

a voice inside of him that says

"Don't sell me out!"

when he looks at the rolling acres

and the woodland

and the yellow grass

fields and his small frame house

with the old furniture and appliances

and battered mattresses in the attic

and memories spilling out of

lighted windows into the night

while friends talk and laugh

by the wood stove until the moon sets.

This voice

is just one voice inside of him,

and there are other voices--

pragmatic, realistic, practical

and a bitter one

back there somewhere that says--

what does it matter?

But still . . . he hesitates.

Perhaps he now hears

that small voice stronger

because of the echo

of a self-conscious fly-away little girl

who loved to get lost in those fields,

and who said that the farm was

her favorite place in the world.

He is not all pragmatist.

He is the most difficult combination,

a Poet-Farmer.

His heart loves the beauty, his

body loves the ground.

And for this

he hesitates . . .

for this,

I like him.

November 24, 2012