Lamentations
As I walked the fields, I would see you
in every cloud I passed over,
every blue sky that stretched overhead,
every sunbeam that arched toward me.
As I walked the fields, you were in
each bend of leaf,
each new plantlet breaking forth,
each field bursting full of life
and green and promise.
Now that I labor behind a desk
and my brain and my body tire
more easily,
it is becoming more of a challenge
to find you.
I walk along the blacktop road
at lunch in the sun,
but only gravel greets me.
I water my slow growing garden
after my daytime shift,
and every once in a while
I still see your face in the wind.
But we exchange no words like before
in the field.
The half living peach tree struggles
as I
to grasp this world’s aura and thrive
but somewhere I know
you are here
waiting for me.
I need only discover the energy and place
and spark
to find you once more.
****
6/24/21
Tansy Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold
*****
About this poem
This poem was not easy to write. Each week, my mother and I write a poem based on a prompt from a book I bought for us, and then we share it with each other. This week, it was a prompt on lamentations, to write a poem on something we regretted, was mourning, or missed out on. I was not aware I needed to write this poem until it started coming out on the page at me.
I used to have a job as an agronomist, where I did all of the field work for the small environmental company based in northeast Nebraska. We had a pretty far reach, so I enjoyed soil sampling the clayey loess of northwest Iowa, the sands of Western Nebraska, and the loams of southern Nebraska. I found a certain peace when I would stand out in the fields to look at how the crops were growing. It was there that I found a connection to my farmer grandfather who passed away several years ago. I would talk to him in my mind, discovering answers to the growing questions my clients would bring to me as I went searching in their fields, looking at their livelihood, grasping it in my hands as I walked. It was a connection I haven’t felt anywhere else. So the decision to leave the job wasn’t made lightly. I won’t go into the reason for the decision here, other than the fact that the consideration was due to more than mere dollars per hour. Respect, sanitary working conditions, number of hours, and benefits (and the energy to do them) are important, too.
This is the first summer where I am in my new job, working from the desk, not scouting fields. I missed the initial growing season, where seeds became plants, popping their heads out of the soil, greeting their new lives in small ways. Now that it is almost July, my mind is still thinking in indoor mode because I have not had that transition of watching my fields develop. It didn’t hit me until I saw photos of storm damage on social media from the night before and I realized that usually, I would be out there, taking my own photos, assessing damage for my clients. But this year, I am not out there. This year, I am behind a desk, preparing for customers to call to order seed to replant. This year, I am not walking among the damage and talking to my grandfather and seeing the sky and the soil and the green. I miss this. I am still mourning the past and adjusting to my new way of life.
This poem emotionally drained me, but it made me aware that there is a certain lack in my life. I am seeking a place where I can connect to my farmer grandfather’s spirit yet. I still walk daily and see the sun. I still see plants in my city and try to grow a garden in the yard that I need to cultivate and rehabilitate from being mistreated by former owners. This takes time.
I wonder how long the process will take.
