Where we righteously toiled,
its wetness is drying
up. Soil is melting 
seeds. Early crops sunburned, 
their little stems ache, 
when will a sigh come 
for this breath we 
hold? Hope inconsistent like
new clouds, that refuse
old ways, that dishonor
expectations and make fun
of soil and us.

So we'll sow again.
We only missed head 
start, but we're out
of favors, eggs in one
basket, all we ask
is to reap what 
we sow; mother Earth,
agree hard work is
enough. We rest our
year on the shoulders 
of soil. Cultivators. This 
is all we know.

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