By Anita Tanner
After the plow’s deep
churning comes the spreading
work, roots and remnants
of years’ crops turned
over in the soil. Harrow
spikes and teeth begin the fine
thin line of mud-caked
script read and reread
every year until time
slows for each foot
to meet the corrugated
stair of the last
leaving.
If some who toil
here make their own
striations across the fields
in zigzag patterns or hopeless
plots of chaos, we can never
guess. The harrow’s tracks
lead everywhere, all habit
heart, and heritage
revealed in those
thin lines.
