The Farmer’s Wife

The Farmer’s Wife

When he slips from their bed
at a quarter past four
on a cold winter morning
he will find the coffee already made
his coveralls warm
straight from the dryer waiting
by his boots in the mud room.
At dark, he will come in to find her
by the wood stove
dinner on the table
waiting with a smile.

In the spring, she will plant his life
with children and love
She will balance his books
consorting with tax man and banker
to find money where there is none
for a tractor
for a planter
for the combine
that will steal her man
on all the best fall nights.

In the summer, she will be consummate with the cows
have command of the bull
be up with the chickens
control the farm dog with only a look
she will feed cake as well as bake it
salt the heifers along with the bread
she will mend fences
grease mowers
harvest blackberries for a cobbler.

In the fall, she will know how to drive
the things that needs driven
the feed truck
the grain truck
the rake
the baler
the bulldozer
and she will meet him, willing
at the edge of the field after
she has worked a day full of her own
climb into the cab and
steer all night if she needs to.

She will wait patient as a corn stalk
for the rain to talk to him
about the kids
about the money
about the part for the plow
about what she needs
that which she will express in a way
that will keep him in bed
long past dawn on the sweet dark morning
while the crops and the grass
take in life from a cloud
she will drink in his essence
refill her soul
replenish his being
letting the seasons and the coffee wait.

Mane

Mane

by Kimberly Beer

The revelation to
your deepest secrets
can be found
in the mane
of a horse,
each tangle
an unraveling
of a question
you didn’t even know
how to ask.

Making Hay

Making Hay

by Kimberly Beer

When summer finally
steals July breathless
and the shade holds
every living being hostage,
it will be the time for
farmers to go to the field
and make hay.

First comes the cutting.
The severing of the grass
from its mother earth.
This parting makes
the sweetest perfume
that hangs about
the field like a
new lover over
morning coffee.

Then there is the raking.
The tossing and spinning
of the shorn grass
with the hot air.
When it’s done,
you can stand
knee deep
in fluffy rows of
clover,
lespedeza,
timothy,
orchard grass,
and fescue.

The baler follows,
swallowing the windrows
one deep row
after the next
until it becomes
too full and stops to
bind and wrap,
to release the bale
back onto the
freshly swept
carpet of green.

Stacked in rows,
aged to gold
the bales will wait,
patiently,
quietly, until
winter’s eventuality
removes the last
of autumn’s warmth
and the deepest of snow
paints the world white.
Then it will be time
for the farmer to break
open the bales, to
release to the cows
a precious taste of the
summer sun’s love.

Be a Better Procrastinator

Be a Better Procrastinator

make it a practice to:
wander
amble
saunter
dawdle
meander
roam
drift

at every opportunity:
take time to digress
revel in getting sidetracked
stray from the appointed
deviate from the common
mosey away from structure

allow yourself to:
veer into passion
rove toward jubilation
prowl after pleasure
swerve around happiness
stroll with delight

do not ever be guilty in your:
bliss
glee
euphoria
felicity
elation
rapture