The Hungry Farmer
A poem on the perplexities and possibilities of worth
A flock of hens
for morning meals,
a dozen or more eggs
was the conscripted deal.
With each season that passes
a trend starts to emerge,
a decline in production
means your deaths on the verge.
Ever the reality
of life on the farm,
each member is judged
by how the harvest is harmed.
Those who only consume
seed, sweat and space,
find themselves served on the plate
with the quickest of haste.
Over-easy, poached,
baked or fried,
will judiciously depend
on the hungry farmer’s mind.
2/9/24
