Poem 122

pastoralism is the need for a time that was too perfect to be true; this is my ode to people who know what they are eating, with love from a girl who enjoys soy milk and tries to avoid reading ingredients. 
I’ve never parted the soil to bed a seed,
Never watched a seed toil into a tree
Bear fruit with seeds to grow again when spring comes.
No fruit in my cellar of my own reeping
I am keeping the pantry full with grocery needs.
I mostly toss away the seeds. Where would I put them?
In the first world I have a plastic bud by the dresser,
Reminding me of gardens, but needing no attention.
In the third world we pry poverty from its roots
Pity the poor without medicine and libraries,
Without word docs, emails, autocorrect
On the cell phones we don’t use to call our mothers.
How poor the people of seeds, growing the green leaves
Just as they always were, clean and clear the sunlight
The noisy nonsense civilized chew the dirt. 
I wouldn’t know a seed from a pebble or a fossil. 
Look up the photos on my cellphone and pity 
The people of the land, with only hope and no photos.
No eyes on the hive mind we share with touchscreens and wikis.
Just hope, the third world parts the earth and delivers their vessel.
Not needing a picture, the seed is every stage of tree.


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