In the fallow year

The year I lie fallow, damp skies succor me;
lungless, I breathe the stirring air.

Clouds gather their engorged breasts,
expresses liquid nourishment,

hydrate hard clods, drench layers of usefulness,
glut my parched pores with their fall.

Myriad cells on droughty skin distend;
turgid under roily pools

and luminous atmosphere, I spread my sodden
security blanket.

Clammy earthworms burrow through clay and quartz;
roots sink into solum; sediments form.

I glitter with mica and seethe with gas,
heave with humus and minerals.

When skies soften and floodwaters drain,
I sense the mingling of growth and decay,

the black-brown decomposition under new sun;
droplets run off my rill-gutters

into the fertile ground; insects dry their delicate wings
and shake their tiny wombs.

The massive machines for sowing and harvesting
are motionless.

Calloused hands stroke the warm metal.
The farmer checks his precious seeds; they are still dormant.

In a little while, he’ll mark a drill, remembering
the contours of his field in the expectant spring.

His rubbery feet sink in ooze;
a breeze harrows the stillness.