He feels most alive in Osh-Kosh overalls
as he drives up a cobblestone lane
to an old stone farmhouse.
A leaning silo, crumbling outhouse
and sagging barn emit a soulful spirit.

Grinning ear to ear astride a vintage tractor,
a strand of timothy hay between his teeth
and a battered straw hat upon his head
makes him a happy man.
He mows acres of lawns down to the bone
and bush-hogs fields behind a milking barn
until they sing in green in a sun-baked sheen.

Riding a tractor, a moving meditation.
With sun blazing down, he’s in the moment,
as he rolls around the stillness of a stone wall.
Out of a spring-fed pond, a golden koi leap for joy.

Evenings, he devours Agroplow seed catalogues,
dreaming of an English garden. He scours tractor parts
for a three-point-hitch, and grapplers for every kind of terrain.

He’s morose when he must leave, scrubbing grease
off lily-white hands with Lava soap and Goop.
Teary-eyed, as black loam under his nails
trickles down the drain.

He dreads returning to suits, steel, and a tomb of cement;
no shining sun, or sweet-scent of mown hay,
or winds breathing on fields of corn,
growing as strong as Celtic warriors.

Nothing can replace the glittering panorama
of sky splattered with stars, or the comfort of cicadas,
crickets and galumphing frogs that lull him to sleep

Under a full moon, so dim it can’t even be seen,
the dissident din of a thriving metropolis
keeps him tossing and turning in an ambien-induced sleep.

He would gladly barter his soul for life on a farm.