let's seek the fire

the fire beneath

we distance ourselves from the hard rhythms
of earth, sun, season, of either too little rain or too much,
of the reality that before all else, must be creation--
sunlight to leaves to food,
a metamorphosis upon which can be built
the edifices of our cities and technologies and comfortable lives,
without which chain after chain crashes back into not being,
without that first fire all would be dark for no one would know the light,

we know some folks in New England
who are rediscovering a working farm on 300 acres of rich Maine soil,
land and fields and barn still there from the dairy farm it used to be,
a new house is rising behind the old farmhouse,
some support pillars lovingly found, crafted, and released
to function in form that honors their growth and individuality,
south-facing to honor the sun for the lightening of its gifts,
snug and insulated to remember those gifts,
maybe enough photovoltaics in its future to be off the grid,
sunlight to electricity, so like the trick chlorophyll allows,
for now the old farmhouse holds against the cold and the rain,
a wood stove resolutely heats air and water,
we share popovers and tea with the young mother and her six month-old,








I see the creator in her eyes and hands
as she embodies that initial creation of body and self
upon which all that is human is built,
the father is off working fruit trees for the season
with fellows who share the pruning, the vision, and the prospect of bounty,

already animals embody the farm
and a big garden will go in for this year,
we savor new maple syrup from their own trees
and hear plans for vegetables for “community supported agriculture,”








in my own way I am drawn to that same fire
these young homesteaders seek:
I walk Walden Pond every year I can
and I seek Thoreau’s gift to be simple,
I appreciate myself to the Smokies
and I seek to know its forms of land water, of flora and fauna,

I garden for the joy of soft buttercrunch lettuce, crisp sugar snap peas,
a perfect tomato, blueberries and cherries that almost burn the tongue,
I also garden for preschoolers
so that each who visits can get close to the fire
from which food itself comes:
they gather native pumpkins, sometimes green beans,
and, if we’re lucky and the summer’s been dry,
we can part the earth, and a four year old can reach in,
and out comes a potato, no middleman of store and plastic in between,










many are the gifts that teachers hope students will open and use,
no gift I know of is more basic and important
than knowing the truth of farm and forest,
the rules of the game we play even though we can pretend we don’t,

so much depends on knowing a year
as plant and animal and rock know the passing of time.

by Henry H. Walker
April 8, ’11