I hedge when I say "my farm." We don't ever own, we barely rent this earth. I've even watched a boulder age, changing the texture of its mosses and cracking from cold back in 1983. Squinting, it becomes a mountain fissure. I've sat on this rock so long we celebrate together our age, our mute geologic destiny. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE A CALIFORNIA CHRISTMAS by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER TO THE NIGHTINGALE by JOHN MILTON THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES by FRANCOIS VILLON AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS; SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |