a road out

sometimes you wake
up and stare out the window
and say
the hell with the farm.
how many springs
can you keep
plowing the field,
tilling the soil
planting a new crop.
wheat, corn, alfalfa.
makes no difference.
you get by, but that's it.
your back hurts no
matter what comes up
out of the ground.
but it's winter now.
the earth is frozen solid
like a block of ice
and you've got two
more months of throwing
logs onto the fire
and trying to figure
out a better way
to live your life,
an escape, a road out.