In the Field

28 July 2023

As I survey my field, I remember
how last season's crop came up fallow.
The soil has had no time to heal
and the seed is exhausted and shallow.
I know what I have to do now,
though it pains me to look on the barren
and doubt that here ever could grow
something worthy of effort. But pain
could be pain of new birth, not this field
or this labor, but pain from some far away effort
to find a new field and to build a hearth near it
where children could play in the morning
and old men retire at evening,
but children would notice the dearth of the field
of the hollow seed, and would surely have questions
as I, gazing blankly at Nothing, remain
unresponsive. Oh well, it was nice as a dream,
though the field and myself are the same,
and though nothing has changed,
I must gaze at it, penetrating
into some essence not well understood or explained,
like an artist, but not like a rabid one,
waiting for what's there to speak. Of this field
I know nothing, hear nothing, and therefore
expect to grow nothing. It's always this way
with such fields, which were not well maintained,
though it happens in even good fields.
I do not tell my neighbor what to do with his field,
and I ask for the same in return,
but in my case, I'll know when my field has run dry
not to hope it will grow if I try.