When they sold a farm, along with a deed and witness,
they used to bring a handful of dirt to the table
and thunk it down on a cloth to close the deal.
They didn’t need that inch or two of earth
to certify that the land was arable;
and it didn’t vouch for more than a single field—
one pile of humus.  So, what was it worth?

Not much, but I’d prefer the dirt to this:
Signatures, mortgages, notaries, lawyers, liens,
the covenants on the property being sold—
what do they have to do with a piece of land?
Passing papers—nothing’s here to hold.

The dirt would show what the transaction means.
An earnest of the farm it’s taken from,
the purchaser could weigh it in his hand.
Not much;  but then a little heap of loam
is an amount I ought to understand
with the odd affinity I feel for home.

Randolph, Vermont