The Farm Roads are Plowed or To My as Yet Unborn Child
The farm roads are plowed, I know,
I go there often, you’ll go there too.
The winter crops of whiteness are happy
To be left untouched.
And there is, of course, a sentinel who stands guard
At the farm’s gate and is happy to be there.
The air bites at him and tells him the Winter
Is almost through. I know, I’ve lived it often,
And so will you.
Look for winter spice in the field,
It will seem an age since it was furrowed,
And, not wanting to cry or frown,
It will be another age before I lie me down.
Call out loud to Springtime, Summer and Fall--
That the sentinel will work for you to make
The difference at harvest.
It’s snowing now, and the Winter night is blue,
I know, I see it often, and so will you.
And when I have gone where I have gone,
And when I have done what I will do,
It will be the plow against the dirt
That will get the seasons through,
And be most happy in the dirt’s delight
To spread our arms, connecting night,
To walk the farmer’s share of light
That’s grown asunder and fulfills
The Spring with corn and thunder
That you will plow with such abundance
As I plowed them through and through;
And you will plow the Seasons too.