| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Libbie |
Posted - Oct 27 2006 : 09:11:28 AM
This is just amazing. It's from "The Farmgirl Poems" by Elizabeth Oakes.
Food
My mother's hands fed me.
My father's hands fed me.
My father rode a tractor,
planted corn and beans
with flowers in the rows,
gigged frogs, cleaned fish,
the knife quick in his hand. He
took the world, slit it
open, and gave it to us.
In a house dress, my mother
milked cows and gave
us cups blue-warm, dug
lodes of potatoes, turned
them into the gold of flavor
in our mouths, plucked
new lettuce that floated
on the tongue. Her hands
were folded leaves that opened
and bore and gave.
I knew where food came
from on that land now
only in my memory.
And nothing has tasted
the same my whole life.
Does food have a spirit?
Does it somehow retain
memories of divinity?
Traces of hands?
Isn't that such a beautiful description of what "real" food can be?
XOXO, Libbie
"Nothing is worth more than this day." - Goethe |
| 2 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Hideaway Farmgirl |
Posted - Oct 30 2006 : 07:11:59 AM
Libbie, that is wonderful!
Thanks for sharing it with us!
Jo
"There are no strangers here, only friends you've yet to meet." |
| Marybeth |
Posted - Oct 27 2006 : 09:32:45 AM
So beautiful, so true, so sad. This is what we are trying to perserve for our children.
Life may not be the party we hoped for...but while we are here we might as well dance! |
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