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MB - Ode to the Farmer

Ode to the Farmer

By J. Bob Plemons

When the wild wind comes blowing,
And bends the willow bough.
It’s then that I’ll be knowing,
That he’s about to plow.

When the March wind makes its exit,
And the willow bough is still,
The weather beaten farmer,
If ready now to till.

The soil so rich and fertile,
That slept the winter past,
Is awake now and ready
For the planter’s seed at last.

As the plow turns its furrows
Deep and straight and long,
The birds nest in the hedges,
And sing their nesting song.

About the fields the earthen smell,
Hangs heavy in the air,
The seed are in a hurry,
To sprout up everywhere.

The summer rains are welcome
And the farmers give his thanks.
He knows if he’s to harvest,
The earth must have its drink.

And people shop the market,
And swiftly fill their cart.
They never give a thought
Of what’s in a farmers heart.

He loves the lot that’s cast him,
To grow what others eat.
God and he are partners.
So the harvest is complete.

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