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.