Something is Given

Something is given
as if to a poet,
a piece of land perhaps
to plant his words in.

I plow the sod,
disc it smooth.
In this lap of earth
spill my seeds.

By the waterway where
once a gully flourished,
tall grass hides rabbits
and pheasants, shy as
my thoughts.

I cultivate the land,
keep the weeds cut,
pray for rain in a dry
season. I hope for mature
stalks and ripe corn

before frost.
This, my land, far from the sea
and its empty words repeated
wave after wave.