A man goes to his field. It’s spring.
Clay opens up the clay.
And if I forgot, The Farmer’s country mile wide smile reminds me: we are meant for this, this knowing from whence we’ve come. The nostrils inhale it deep when I hang clothes on the line, loamy air, the dark, hidden promise, and after the winter, we’re anxious keen to remember.
Remember that there is but one difference between us and the soil under our feet, under our plowshare, under our food… One difference only between the dirt in my hand and my hand…
The breath of God.
Shalom, the peace child, she really must have one more ride with The Farmer before bed — she pleas and who can resist sky eyes? — and I let her go, and Hope-girl too, because they are always two-for-one, and that Man-Son Caleb, he’s training for the work of cultivating the earth, the working open and bare of what he really is, what he would be if not for the face of God bending close and warm, and I stand on the edge of the field, opening in happiness too, and I watch them all go and I remember.
We cultivate soil in April.
We all keep breathing.
Photos: clay meeting clay again
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