Farming

The fields lie fallow
that stretch beyond the horizon.
Sometimes far hills look blue
in the evening haze.

What I might choose to raise
makes a kind of news,
providing pause
for fertile reflection.

It is not alone that I work
or alone appeal
for wisdom in the choices I make.
The stakes are real
whatever I choose to raise.

There is risk and chance.

The river flows past ever new
in its own wet dance.
Winds blow or softly lie down.
The days advance.

At no time am I asked what I lack.

What affirms attracts
and confirms both the "what" and the "how".
I pull on my shoes
and position my hands on the plow.

I do not look back.