Mr. Roethke’s Farm

I went to lunch on my own today so ended up writing a poem. For some reason last night I had this thought come into my head "Mr. Roethke's farm." It put an image in my head that was kind of sticky, so while I was waiting for my food I started jotting down some lines. This came pretty quickly and I kind of like it.

Theodore Roethke was a poet from Saginaw, Michigan, in case you don't know. Look him up—he was a wonderful poet. His father ran a greenhouse and there's a lot of natural imagery in his poetry as a result. He died the year I was born.

Mr. Roethke's Farm

The old greenhouse at the edge of the field
Stark and cold in the stillness of November.

Everything is flat, sharp.
Muted grays, browns, sterile
White and lifeless.
Blackbirds sit in trees but don't move,
Silent as dead leaves.

It's all a facade,
A brushed canvas.
Reach down in the cold earth.
Let the dirt sift through your fingers.

There beneath the surface
Of those lifeless winter beds
Bulbs sleep in their potential.
Waiting for spring--

To wake and set the world in motion.