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