Guest guest Posted April 8, 2008 Report Share Posted April 8, 2008 The grower of the trees, the gardener, the man born to farming, whose hands reach into the ground and sprout, to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn. His thought passes along the row ends like a mole. What miraculous seed has he swallowed that the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water descending into the dark? Wendell Berry Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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