In early spring the fields—
prairie before pioneers
with horses, plows, visions
of abundance transported—
are dressed in mourning.
They ask for nothing,
make no difference
in the general scheme. If they
were mouths, they’d be toothless.
If hands, empty. If feet
they’d have walked off
in search of bounty.
The fields, in early spring,
cannot find even
the wherewithal to cry
for themselves.