The Farmer

Someday I will be a farmer,
Oh what will I grow?
I don't know,
Or I would rather not tell,
Because I know I have yet to make a till.

Will I have my animals,
Of course it is a ranch,
So there will be reptiles and mammals,
But not a bunch to branch.

Fruits to bear, 
Why yes of course!
How else would I not have a basket of pear
all year round?
For what I don't love to see is my ground bare,
As I look at my pigs, chickens and horses,
I find their health and their state to be of sound 
like the ground I walk.

Will I have wheat stalk on my mouth?
Why yes I will because that is my till,
And what I know I did, I did of no foul,
For I know those were my tears' and sweats' own fill!

To what do I quench my thirst with
I will dredge it up from the bottom of my well.
As I know it so well this is my well,
For what I drink is of no aqueous myth.

Oh to my fields I do my plowing and sowing,
I know I must return to it when it is harvest time.
For I see an abundance that needs to be reaping
In a fertile land filled with fruits and vegetables of ripe.

As the dreary winters draw I must give refuge 
to the harvests and the animals alike.
For what binds them is not one of subterfuges
but of a heart that keeps them safe and liked.

Someday I will be a farmer,
But today, I am a writer.
As my crops are my writings,
And my harvests are the results of it.

Author's Note

Ignore grammar problems. Am I being presumptuous at this point or just assuming on the topic?

Reviews

[Aethereal]

I enjoyed your use of farming as a metaphor for writing. After doing all the work to plant our seeds, the rest is up to fate. We plant our seeds for themes, and then watch them sprout and bloom within our imaginations as their symbolic tendrils, leaves, and petals add on too our works of art one by one, or all at once.