Our neighbor, fourth generation
farmer who fought to stay out
of the family business, now wears
a Deere cap like a badge of honor.
Recently, he has torn down the buffalo
barns where his grandfather bred bison,
butchered them for burgers—a leaner,
meaner beef. In their place, he has sown
seeds of milkweed, two precious acres
that could have been cultivated for corn
or some other crop reaping a profit.
But he has seen the seas rising on the coasts,
feels the November heat beating on his neck,
and knows he must save some small part
of this earth where his blood relations
toiled and bled to live, to give it now
to him, their legacy that he feels brush
against his face, flutter on his flattened
palms, as he, now monarch of the family,
stands, open-armed, among the Monarchs.