The Harrowing

To enter the field without speaking
Of the bad years is to trust what is

Buried, or at least sleeps. All I bring to dirt
Will rise again through green, what survives

The first plow. Also: an uncertain fawn
Or rabbit taken up and broken by tines

Becomes part of the work, held in morning
Light, thrown to the dog. We mend most everything

Known, marks in a field where we maintain
Others were before, also turning earth