Voice

I’m searching for my voice, listen…is it here?

Mine is a voice of prosody, though sometimes of verse

It has rhythm that often falters, skipping, out of time

It meanders like a cat, its tail waving

I have seen my voice in print, I hope it sounds like me

I am looking for it here, it might be lying in a notebook

or a scrap of paper, a random scribble on a page

Farm

What does it mean to be a farmer anymore?

Who owns that title?

Is it the…

Landlord-farmer, floating above the loamy-green

Detached from the earth

The farmer who does not plant or work in the soil

Absent from the field

Tractors driven by satellite, the spring plantings

Artificial stars

Who is the farmer? The landlord or the field-hand

The sewer, reaper

Crawling down the rows, fingers pressed into the dirt

Seeds and prayers and hope

Is she the farmer; is he? The unnamed hireling

Toiling in the sun

Sweat dripping from the brow, laborers watering

Nameless boys and girls

People without a claim, or recourse to the law

Dreamers without land