Homer Noble Farm

Homer Noble Farm

I heard uncle Homer never bought what he could make
and he could make about anything.
The pipeline from the spring was a wooden trough
as were the eve spouts on the house.
Every bent nail was straightened.
Nothing was waste.

In his way, Homer Noble was a poet.
A poet of sparsity, words
pondered over and spent like saved change.
The bare kitchen, floors scrubbed,
glass clear to catch all the daylight
woodstove near the center.
Fine cut maple split to size,
small for a quick hot fire,
whole for a baking.

The farmer and the poet worked the same land,
Frost in his cabin with words
of bitter irony and Noble running
the farm on the slant of light
across the field and the tough, clever hands,
making do.