this rain and yesterday evening's, all these weeds
to pull but not from mud,
not from the wet leftovers of some previous month
it's easy, once away, to forget the grip of fields, how
they own us here, how horse nettle and pigweed snicker
and even purslane blows hot air around our ankles,
setting traps of inconceivable work days. three days of
virginia and my palm was reading tidy, what amendments?
what deficiencies? what sorting and planting and cultivating?
i was enthralled in social relationships and upper lips,
shoelaces and breakfast bills.
now, back, we lean over our crops.
the land group asked
the subtle bowhunter to triple his shots, peppers are
blushing, onions clipped, heavy, curing, and now, it's
raining, and where my feet touch, the soil will part into
two equal clumps of obligations and necessities, only
fulfilled partially, the rest will wait till drier conditions.
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