Plowman

This is plowing time and I am plowing,
Winding furrows like long black strings
Around a field that every day is growing
Smaller while the plowman sings.

For I am the plowman plowing my field,
Now is the time to turn it into furrows.
Plowing makes new land, new land makes new yield,
And turns into old land, plowed up tomorrow.

I am a plowman; I will plow the stars
And let them ring like stones against my plows.
I, a sky plowman!—Will you close the pasture bars,
Finish the chores, bring home the cows?