The Myth of the Breeze

Farm, on which things will grow

The ground is frozen. Per­haps eight inches below the sur­face. For now we are left to walk the grounds with vision. Here, a future pluot tree. Over there a bed of flow­ers. And this is where I’ll ride my bike, through the farm, pulling shov­els and hoes behind me, jeans dirty at the knees, neck and arms tanned.