The Mad Agriculture Journal
January 29, 2024
“They were Nature.” He paused,
spoke into darkness, his warmth lit from above.
An unforeseen prayer saturated the canvassed hall.
A solemn ritual with philanthropic curation.
He leads the virtuous patrons through rites of passage
Presenting a program of experts, outfit with graphic display,
to forestall manipulations of Earth’s precious trust.
Uncovering the plain trail of wayward footprints.
With questionable status, like visitors outgrowing their welcome.
“Who is Nature?” I paused,
consciously challenging my plot for acceptance.
Reluctance to share my holistic belief, earned in time and hand,
protecting my affectionate bond to the land.
who’s sacred mantle I bear, exchanged for victual gifts.
Praise to the farmer, intimate partner, tender of soil and place
Balancing wild with tame, rehearsing nature’s play.
Cooperator, apprentice, and citizen,
I gesture beyond the blinds, to leave chair and laptop behind for sunlit sphere.
“Who are We?” who arrive,
Upon the Vista of grazed pasture, river and mountains beyond,
setting burdens down, attending to our breath.
Passing breeze calms our suspect skin with a softened gaze into the horizon,
allowing each sound entry with no name and this body to be held by the forgiving soil
Returning to the facts and figures, a renewed self center falls into place.
Imperfect, inclusive, assured, an unforeseen prayer revealing
Our admission paid by contributing with presence
Living with purpose, remembering we are Nature.