A speaker spends a morning turning over a garden, and somewhere in the work he stops and takes stock of himself. The title, "Hobby farmer," sets up a gentle self-mockery: he is someone who farms for pleasure, not out of need. The poem is only a few lines long, but it holds a quiet reckoning.
The first lines are plain and physical, all repetition and effort. Then the focus shifts inward. Standing in the rows, he looks at himself, as if the soil has become a mirror. The last two lines are the surprise. "A simple argument for oats" suggests the plain, practical life the garden stands for, while "before art broke me" hints that creative work has left him worn down or damaged. The poem doesn't say how.
The mood is wry, tired, and a little tender. He seems to find relief in honest labor, yet the word "broke" keeps a note of regret, and perhaps doubt, running underneath.