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From humble mastery bid in turn

with days numbered one-by-one,

hands weathered, blistered to

chore, even in broiling sun,

it’s the daily drudgery over

and over until it’s all through,

from such simple feats the

complex unfolds to all accrue,

to feel the soil beneath your

feet and smell the earthen friend,

and now by this communing pray

for rain… from God to send,

leaving no field fallow, no

row unplowed… the farmer’s due,

this the task of charge, as picked,

whereby laziness did eschew,

it is the facing of sunlight

before the light wakes the land…

it is a way of life, you see-

shovel and hoe to know the hand,

there turns not a day away

that would not know hard work,

there is nothing easy of this

life… where toil one cannot shirk,

but the rewards are many: to

lay well at night on your bed,

having looked in the mirror and

seen the decent look back… well fed,

this is the true satisfaction of

a farmer’s life, bereft of sorrow

from the ills of city life… what

plagues us today to be tomorrow,

to give thanks to God for all

his labor at the dinner table…

to say grace for his mete and

strength to continue as so able.

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