The Man Born to Farming
The grower of trees, the
gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into
the ground and sprout,
to him the soil is a
divine drug. He enters into death yearly, and comes back
rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down in the dung heap, and
rise again in the corn. His thought passes along
the row ends like a mole.
What miraculous seed has
he swallowed
that the unending
sentence of his love flows out of his mouth
like a vine clinging in
the sunlight, and like water
descending in the dark? - Wendell Berry
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