Planting Day

Behind the weathered barn, I crouch 
among burlap bags full of this year’s 
seed. These kernels promise before 
they prove, and I have no choice 
but to trust them, turn under 
the hard crust, smooth the deep cracks,
clear weeds and rocks and dead birds,
and finally count measured handfuls, 
each of the infinite granules 
packed tight with failure or success— 
they will not say which. 

I think all morning of our autumn life 
and the four-month gamble that begins
today. The sun scorches my neck, 
sweat runs salty into the corners 
of my mouth, and at home 
my whole family practices a day 
of penance. I am alone in this 
field of clay, trembling on a wooden bench,
my fissured hands clenching the reins 
that nudge along two horses.