How Come?
No farm girl, me.
I never milked a cow
or carried slops. I never
climbed a plank at five a.m.
to the top of the manure pile.
I don’t know horses
or their horsey ways.
I never birthed a calf,
rode a tractor, or collected
warm eggs in a basket.
How come then
I am drawn to the smell
of cow flank, hay bale,
and sun-warmed
clods of earth?
How come
Caroline’s kitchen
with its cardboard crates
of plum tomatoes, cukes, and okra
feels so like home?
How come I love a counter top
lined with jars of pickles
and at night, the sound
of crickets crooning
to the cold stars?
What gentle farm hand
(with dirty nails and pure heart)
takes me under those stars
and pulls me to this ground
of earthen bounty?
Lisa Vihos
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