Responding To Wendell Berry

I read a poet who farms the land, the land he grew up on. He'd gone off to the city, taught in the university, then became inspired to go back home. His colleagues tried to talk him out of it. 'Think of your career, ' they said, but he would not be dissuaded. That was long ago. He's happy with his choice. His feet are on the ground, and words come deeply rooted from his pen. But I, born in the city's entrails, all Fire and Air with no Earth in my chart, read his work and wonder, 'Do I need to be a farmer, too? ' troubled by the question: if I'm only building castles in the sky, what good am I doing? And then, I felt a new poem, just like dreaming — unusual for me — asleep, I am a fallow field, and when I rise, a green and dancing field of corn. I open my arms and give my golden Life to the hungry, and then lay down again in the dreaming Earth and I wonder, was this poem my Answer?