I just noticed this poem, published at the end of last month by the New Yorker. Wendell Berry is not only a poet, novelist, and essayist, but also (and he would probably say foremostly) a farmer. He has a way with words and with soil, and that’s rare. Anyway, check out his new poem: A Speech to the Garden Club of America, my favorite part of which I quote below.
The garden lives by the immortal Wheel
That turns in place, year after year, to heal
It whole. Unlike our economic pyre
That draws from ancient rock a fossil fire,
An anti-life of radiance and fume
That burns as power and remains as doom,
The garden delves no deeper than its roots
And lifts no higher than its leaves and fruits.