While Meadowlarks Sang

It began with the first eggs
I gathered, the first basket
of corn I carried, the first
day in the field, lessons
in the book of Work. I learned
them well. I read other books
and looked at the pictures
that instructed me in the habits
of time, how tomorrow loses
its promise when it becomes
yesterday. I saw the sundial
measure hours but not the sweat and
worry that filled them. I trudged
past women with May baskets,
past the leafy woods and flowering
meadows and plowed my furrows
while the meadowlarks sang.