Rows

Walking in the morning you pass farms
with their neat rows,
perfect picture each season,
from plowing to planting to harvest,
a beautiful reflection of the rural place you live,
hard work and unwritten rules that,
when followed,
result in such picturesque perfection.

It is a wonder, you think, that they let you in
with your southern drawl
and lack of rules,
a foreign creature with no straight lines,
an abstract life,
more heart than brain
and not quite enough protective coloration,

able to admire the perfect rows,
and utterly unable to paint them.

About this poem

I am a Virginian in Vermont. I probably always will be. A “You’re not from around here.” kind of guy. And so grateful for the acceptance of the people here.

Tom