Dark of winter. Dark when you rise, dark when you come in from chores.
I ran into a neighboring farmer this week. He works with his mother now because as a family of two they can do the work of five paid employees. It’s how many small producers survive. He lamented his divorce: “In family agriculture we live by a different rhythm from the rest of society. By the seasons, by the sun, moon, the sap rising or falling, the needs of the animals. Income is a worry, but at least we believe in our work. Sometimes this is impossible to reconcile, even with someone you love.”
Today is the feast of the Epiphany, Three Kings recognizing the divinity in a baby in a cow manger. Epiphanies make me think of our local farmers. They live ephiphanies all the time, they just don’t write poems about them.
I’ve grown to love the dark, deep freeze of winter – time to hibernate, go to bed early, hatch an idea to sow in the spring. All seasons have their charm. But this one is best for dreaming.