No Nightingales, No Nymphs

The imperatives of spring
snap their fingers and we jump
to obey. We prune the apple tree
and grapevines, haul away
the brush, sweep out the granary
and sack up seed oats, shell
the last crib of corn. We
separate the boar from the sows,
scrub the hoghouse with lye
and hot water to kill the germs
before the baby pigs are born.
We plow the garden, as we
promised Mother, as soon as
the ground is dry. We clean
the stinking calf pen and spend
a day among plows and tractors.
The farmer keeps his nose to
the grindstone when spring comes—
no pastoral shepherd to dance
in the moonlight, crowned with
vine leaves, singing to nymphs—
he plows himself to bed, tired
beyond dreaming, snores his way
toward daylight.