In a previous life I think I was a farmer.
Up before the sun, to bed soon after it set.
Frugal and practical, happiest with my hands in the dirt,
Plowing behind a mule, planting and hoping for the harvest,
In tune with sun and rain, the change of seasons, and the cycle of
Renewal and fallow. The farm in my head is in France or Italy, never touched
By war or pestilence, drought or famine. My imaginary farm from an imaginary life.
I have three faithful dogs that follow me everywhere, pigs and chickens, too.