This being the end of March, we could well be in the midst of Winnie-the-Pooh and the Blustery Day, but we're not. We're all the way through March and, for the second year in a row, we've not flown our dragon kite during this month. Kite flying is something one should be able to do while maintaining proper physical-social distance. We had previously made tentative plans with the Daughter Person to fly the dragon kite with her. But then CORVID-19 and stay-at-homes and self-isolations and all that erupted. If not being able to go fly a kite becomes our most severe coronavirus disruption, I'll take it.
Meanwhile, I continue to ponder what our next new normal may look like, and then the one after that, and the one.... Fortunately, there are lots of people and organizations working to bring enhanced levels of sanity to our worlds, although why there aren't more folks lined up behind them is a good question.
Did you know that Minnesota has a Sustainable Farming Association? That organization is one of several in Minnesota that are members of the National Sustainable Agriculture Coalition. Since farming, and our food systems, are among the systems I believe need a complete remake, I'm heartened to have discovered (uncovered?) the existence of these organizations. Perhaps we'll eventually be able to tame, or slay, the huge, corporate dragons that continue to undermine the sustainability of real food farmers and rural communities.
The Farm
My father’s farm is an apple blossomer.He keeps his hills in dandelion carpetand weaves a lane of lilacs between the roseand the jack-in-the-pulpits.His sleek cows ripple in the pastures.The dog and purple iriskeep watch at the garden’s end.His farm is rolling thunder,a lightning bolt on the horizon.His crops suck rain from the skyand swallow the smoldering sun.His fields are oceans of heat,where waves of goldbeat the burning shore.A red foxpauses under the birch trees,a shadow is in the river’s bend.When the hawk circles the land,my father’s grainfields whirl beneath it.Owls gather together to sing in his woods,and the deer run his golden meadow.My father’s farm is an icicle,a hillside of white powder.He parts the snowy sea,and smooths away the valleys.He cultivates his rows of starlightand drags the crescent moonthrough dark unfurrowed fields.
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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