The woman, the wife, of course, could be the heart,
The husband could, or the children, doing their part
To keep machinery humming—the chore machine,
The pet machine, the house-barn-garden machine.
They grow up fast on farms, those children do.
Maybe the heart of the farm is the land. It’s true
Each generation adds their hard-earned sweat
To the soil, but it’s the land sustaining it.
I think the heart of the farm is made of wood,
Or maybe metal and enamel, handed down
When someone in the family could buy new
Or someone died. The kitchen table holds
Conversations, accounts payable, and food–
It’s so alive it almost makes a sound.