Merry Christmas & Happy New Year from Summit Farms – Mitch, Michelle, Sadie & DeSoto

T’was the night before the Christmas Market,
Everybody was last-minute shopping, no room to car-park it,
When all through the land,
All the creatures were stirring, iPhone 14s in hand.

Wishes and dreams were hung by the burn-pile with care,
Believing that St. Oly soon would be there.
The old folks were nestled all snug in their roles,
While visions of produce danced in their souls.

Michelle in her robe, and me in my PJs,
Had another busy farm day in our new life-phase.
When out in the room there arose such a clatter,
Zoey sprang from the table to see what’s the matter.

Away to the window she flew like a flash,
Tore open the drapes with her terrible-tail-sash.
After an ATV ride with Sadie, DeSoto was still puppy-snoring,
The Pit thought Christmas was kind of boring.

The yellow-moon highlights the white winter-snow,
From Rainier to the Doug firs below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But inspiration and motivation that was totally clear.

The Oly Farmers Market and HipCamp were there for the taking,
New kids’ books are now in final baking.
Community partnerships coming together,
Something big going on here – we say never-say-never!

Our family farms are built to thrive, not dependent on the Dow.
Our loving starts and cacti we tend and grow,
With non-GMO Burpee seeds we buy and sow.
We’ve got Greenhouses and a Big Red-Barn,
And row-crops to be planted after the last-frost alarm.

Weeds and pests tremble before new methods make them twerk,
We’ve learned oh so much this year from our WSU course-work.
Health and Wellness are helping to drive the local-farm food-boom.
But just then, in a twinkling, I heard in the room…

The prancing and pawing of Billy the Baaad Goat,
(On the way to the Moon on Artemis 1, One should note!).
After I watered our Microgreens, and was turning around,
St. Oly came down the wood-burning stove-chimney with a bound.

He was dressed in Carhartt overalls with modern growing solutions,
And his clothes were tarnished with blackberry-intrusions.
Food insecurity he would solve with his Pioneer sack,
And he looked like a Native American with his deerskin pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! His joy was so merry!
Even in the freezing fog, his demeanor was so uncommonly cheery!
His opinion of organic farming was so deep and strong,
And if held any Big-Ag grudges, they weren’t for very long.

Visions of The Bountiful Byway, he held tight in his teeth,
Thoughts of happy agri-tourists encircled his head like a wreath.
He had an idealistic face but a business-driven belly,
That shook when he tractored, like a bowlful of jelly.

Wearing a Kubota trucker-hat, he was a jolly old gent,
His farm-life smell followed wherever he went,
Bringing a trail of his nourishing manure cologne-scent.

A request for sun and rain; then a twist of his head,
Soon revealed to the new farmers we had nothing to dread.
Like farm-hands do, he spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Filled us with imagination; then turned with a jerk,

Smiling and striking an Instagram pose,
With a wink and a wave, up the table he rose.
Sprang to his autonomous flying sleigh, and gave a whistle,
We were again filled with Hope like a blue jay to a thistle.

And we heard him exclaim, so all could hear;

“From Summit Farms, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good-Year,
And may all the Farms be filled with High-Yields and Cheer!

© Mitch A Lewis, 2022