The Search

Here on the hillside is a square of ground
marked off by two fences and a row of apple trees
that stretches to the south and lets out frost
the earliest of any field we know.

Here I open the first furrow with joyful abandon
while the point of the plow
seeks its way among the roots like a mole.

I walk through the air with the sun’s steady hand
on my shoulder

Wagon wheels speak to me from the road and a bird overhead
sings Free Free Free but I can’t wait today.

My neighbor stops to tell me how busy he is but his words
float here and there and settle nowhere in the mind,
a salesman flashes his polished sedan but my stride
says sternly, Let me alone, I don’t want anything today.

I plow and plant this field to say what shall come up,
a field won’t wait on you this time of year,
in a world aflame with hate and hater’s fury
a man walks down a furrow and sows spring seeds
seeking truth on the only path he knows.