Winter Field

Whether or not the man who turned
These furrows and wondered if in spring
He would be here with his team and seed
Still lives, after all, is the major thing.

For a field can always grow up to seeds
If it isn’t plowed and levelled for grain,
But a man who’s dead has not such luck
He’s done with things like growth and gain.

So I, the man who plowed the field,
Shall be relieved when they are gone,
This winter sleep, this snowy death,
I’m ready for work when the spring comes on.