Where to Begin

by Paul Hunter

Each generation the farm
has to be started again
as the land is handed down
you pause look where to begin

pencil a cardboard scrap
head-down stalk figuring
whatall has usually been
waiting to be carried on

then calculate what might be
ask yourself why not
rearrange a thing or two
dam that crick for a pond

tear out the barn partitions
for the new young team
take up chickens again
or let go the bother

as hardly worth your while
reckon you’ll maybe move
the garden for better daylight
on around to the south

wait for inspiration
but not a minute too long
asking whatfor you could get
stuck in a daydream walk off

lose yourself a couple decent years
leaving the fields alone
turn and what’s standing there
saplings thick as your arm

Farm Gods

All you need is a cow,

a copper bell, a handful of cabbage seeds,

a crow, a scarecrow.

You need phrases like hobble her hinds

and quick switch hitch, belief

in what is proven by the green bean’s clinging,

the smell of wild mint

that draws you in and out of the woods

along an old overgrown logging road—

You need a nose, you need a hand,

freight trains to argue with river barges

about pace, faces in blackberries to greet faces

on your lips. In the evenings and mornings

moths might dance around kerosene lamps,

and you would be tempted to understand shadows

as giant, docile gods, their wings soft as warm bread.