Row by Row

There's a farmer in all of us... We toil, we serve, we grow up
And want something in return. I want proof!

I don't want to till profits under
I'd like something wonderful...
More than money, more than manure to grow it.
I'd like typewriter to type this.
(and I have it, leaving me wondering... where begins me...)
Anyway there's a life, and I'm truly thankful I'm not one thing....
robot, or machine, or calculator thing

Because there's a little farmer in all of us,
We want paycheck, and privacy to spend it
The proof of work that I did...
And I SEE THIS... (and that)... (and this other thing)...
It's all around, da farm... with harvested field...
And field stubble grows cold, the snow, the rain... sleeping thing.
And low sun brings little light to plateau...

The field of solar power with but plants sleeping
The field of singing, hoeing, rowing, plowing, stowing
The fields of possibility which hold plateau's higher creativity,
Creativity of sorting choices,
Choices of flowing light.
Light of poetry that is and in and of and for... Life.
Perhaps as sprout grows and knows not but intuition and some signals of surrounding environment.

I am the farmer and the sprout.
I am a grower, too.
You are as well.