Yes, I know I am not
a farmer
and that you
ar
not
a gypsy
or a king:
Have you ever
heard 
of
poetic license?
It is when
for instance
the poet
writes
buffaloes
instead 
of buffalo
because
their 
numbers
are now
so
thin
&
she
does 
not 
want
the remaining
tiny
herds
to feel
lonely

I claim
farming ancestry:
Generations
going back
sometimes 
farther 
than
I wish
to look:
All those Africans
& their
yam & cassava fields
the Indians &
their corn
&
beans
the English
& their
collard plants
the Scots
their
what?
crabgrass?
maybe oats!
the Irish
their potatoes
the Elves
their 
herbs

All killing themselves
now
by the thousands
farmers
killing themselves
by
their own
calloused
hands;
not just
in India,
where suicide
among 
farmers
is
a leading cause
of
death
but in
America
too
they are doing
it.

How can this be?
And how can
we
bear
the 
loss?

So I claim
them
in
myself:
I
am
that.

I too
run after
the Earth
as it disappears
beneath 
my feet;

I too
mourn
machines moving
over her face
without
empathy
or
love
of 
her.

Even so,
you are
quite right
I am not
a “farmer”
as most
would think
of 
it:
Tilling my tiny 
plots
of corn
&
beans;
collards
&
squash;
strawberries:
Leaning more
& 
more
on the strength
& youth
of
others
as time
moves on.

No, I was born to grow, 
alongside my garden of plants
poems
like 
this one: