The master craftsman shot his
Netflix sizzle reel
In my barn last month;
The brewmaster pitched me on
Economic leverage
In downtown New Carrolton;
The master chef led a group of
Inchoate consumers
Past my market stand;
The pit master praised
His barbecue sauce,
Insisting I taste his tang;
And the master gardener paused,
Looking askance when I posited:
“No one ever says ‘farm master’”,
To which she replied,
(Too quickly, too eagerly, I felt)
“I’ll be the first to start.”
I shook my head.
“That will be, I’d wager,
A lonely compost hill upon which to die.
Though on the bright side,” I added,
“You wouldn’t have far to go.”
She stared meekly at this, nonplussed,
Implying I have yet to master
Gardening jokes. Or much at all,
So far as I can tell—
Yet I see the grass silently
Bandaging the soil;
The ewe plucking honeysuckle shoots,
Succulent, nourishing;
The hive shuddering
Joyfully at the locust bloom.
What a practice, to lose myself
To each day,
An apprentice on my own farm.
How serene not to know,
To be a master of none, and,
At each dew-soaked dawn, of nothing.