Crop Inspector

The farmer opened the gate,
tramped the line between
his cornfield and the alfalfa
to see if the stand of corn
measured up to the amount
of seed he had planted.
He granted a few hills to
gophers and pheasants but
depended on the rows of green
shoots to grow into the crop
he expected. He checked for
bare spots in the alfalfa
where frost may have shrivelled
a few crowns as it sank cold fingers
into the earth. Still thick enough,
he thought, to smother weeds,
as for the corn, let the cultivator
shovels keep order. His firm steps
on eighty-year-old feet carried him
to the far fence and back.
He poked the ground with his cane
and thought, how many roots
have I favored, how many destroyed.
He felt them underground groping,
searching, reaching out with
hungry mouths, sucking in food
as they hoisted green stalks into
sunlight. He whacked a thistle
with his stick and said, not yet,
old boy, not yet, you will wait
a while before I lie down
as ransom for what I’ve taken.