THE FIELD
In a little delta
of seepage water
near the waterhole
is a small place
that my father has fenced
to make a home
for the corn,
for the squash
and the melons.
It is too cold now,
but soon,
when the snow melts
and hides away in the warm sand,
my father will go to his field.
There he will make
the soil ready for planting.
He will break through
the hard crust of winter
and turn up toward the sun
little lumps of fresh earth.
I like to go with my father
to his field
because
I like the feel and the smell
of new earth
when it first sees the sun.
I want my father to take me
with him
when he goes to plant the corn
because
I forget
how he does it.
