In an open, brown field,
Dark brown from recent rain.
Furrows run north-south.
It rests in early November
From roots that have sucked its fertility.
I stand in its center,
Look in all directions,
Feel feet sink into its softness.
This triggers a longing
To return to the garden
To press two fingers against thumb,
Push them into the dirt,
See if it is dry enough
To transplant, make furrows, dibble holes
Rake, cultivate, fertilize;
Plant, weed, harvest.
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