The spry, seventy-six year old farmer Swung his leg over the tractor seat Like he was still twenty. As I picked nettles, he talked Of the historic cemetery on his property, Of his solar power system, Of ticks and Powassan. His knowledge is deep and ever-expanding, Like the roots of the plants he grows, His brilliance buried by social expectations, Belied by a modest disposition And plain work clothes. Rising, but not setting, with the sun, His strength and stamina outlast That of many men much younger. His zest for life reveals a man- Who would never say- He is in love, with his land.