The Farmer's Season

Yeah, spring, I know spring, the vernal season,
the chores of birth bathed with lilac’s perfume,
but the lily’s gilt rubs off for the farmer’s son
who keeps night-time vigils with mud and rain
and cold. Lord, what a way to inherit the earth,
aren’t there other paths to life and the fullness
thereof? All this pain and blood and struggle 
for a new start, all this sweat and moan to bring
forth, all this care, to clean nostrils and
let in air, to dry the body and warm the blood,
to teach wobbly legs to stand, the mouth to suck.
Here I am alone at midnight with the rain
for music, a bale of hay for my bed, a lantern
for light, and for company an old sow with
a basket of pigs in her belly ready to deliver.