The field fallow for fifty years
Does not open to rain right away
But takes its time in the slow days
Of age that fly by, the days marked
By the rise and fall of sun and moon.
The moon taking the greater impression
This field has taken care of others all its life,
So far. All its time it has been a caretaker
Never grown its own crops. So how can the
Seeds not planted grow? How can the life not
Lived look in the mirror when what’s
Been the view all these years were others’ needs.
Think a minute in the still white mind
Take a moment of the apron’s cloth, know
The Larch for what it is, see the water pouring
Into the kettle. Watch the egg bounce to the boil,
Take into your sweet hand the spoon stirring gently
And do not lift the veil of loneliness but dwell
In the land of you and promise to love.
