Today he scratched back the earth.

The boys drove tractors, picked stones. All the country stormed dust; I could taste it. Washed it down the drain, after all their baths.

Their tired limbs sleep now, two to a bed, their bodies fluid extensions of each other, our love. Sitting here in the dark, I can still here the drone of the tractor engine, Farmer Husband working on.

In the black too, I fly west now, land in the mountains, give some words about writing words, about pens giving the blind eyes to see God, about journaling as a spiritual discipline.

We farm, he and I, soil and souls.

May you till good ground this weekend, friends…

All’s grace,