They Do It So I Don’t Have To

 

 

It begins in winter
sitting with a novel,
a cup of tea,
warm by the woodstove.
I imagine their serious faces
studying their catalogues
so many vegetables, so many varieties.
I live in other’s lives
while they make choices
affecting mine.

 

In spring,
driving past them in the fields
I smell the damp soil
as they guide their tillers,
plow their rows.
I see them kneeling
in the hot sun
making miniscule holes
dropping seeds
that will grow
into the food I eat.

 

In summer,
I leisurely walk
to cool off at the river.
I view their bodies
streaming with sweat,
backs aching.
Their nimble fingers
weeding, staking, harvesting
as I walk by erect,
grateful for their toil,
anticipating
juiciness,crunchiness, freshness
the vegetables picked for me.

 

Midsummer and into autumn,
I sometimes see them
standing
hands on hips or spread wide
gazing into their fields.
I try to envision
their farmer’s dreams,
perhaps relief,
from such labor.
We delight in the bounty
begun so many months ago
soon to start again.

 

Kathy Weisfeld

 

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