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.