Some poets are esteemed, But I, I shall be only Steamed Slowly cooked Through and through By southern heat And haze. My blood Will ooze and bubble With gentle Southern thoughts, Words honeyed By the sun That shined Upon my ancestors Working clay and loam To eke A better life From a land Both harsh and fecund, Beautiful And austere. Those farmers Tilled the soil So I might Cultivate the mind Yet, how little Either harvest Sometimes seems to me. I have done well But how much good? One scarcely knows. The fields I've plowed Have born fruit, If at all, In times and places Beyond my ken. What doctor Wields his skill Because of some Video I bought Twenty-five summers gone? What engineer Builds her bridges Or guides a computer Because of some Bit of library lore I once imparted In some Long forgotten class? I cannot know. I can only plow In the summer sun, Not looking back To see how straight The rows, How tall the corn. With God's help And luck The harvest Will be good.
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