You claim jealousy of my effortful ness That was not directed towards you.

See I was in a different field sowing A bitter crop. When you stopped your wagon And found me, with my strange hands Tilling the ground to a strange pattern You had to journey farther a field. You had learned that the fields were cut In straight furrows, a clean symmetry That you wanted your life to reflect.

What happened then? Did it not rain, This year, in that country of your desire? Was the soil there too shallow for seed To take root? Was it a case of bad luck?

Occasionally standing upright, from such toil, We shouted greetings across the distances, And exchanged recipes and wisdom for growth.
I kept irrigating a dying crop. You kept praying for rain.

The soil I chose returned bitter vines Instead of golden stalks of corn. Their roots were hidden deep in the soil, I saw them and yet didn’t recognize them For their hidden potencies to destroy.

This must then be the cost of learning: how to chose and how to pray.

We meet again at the campground, in the harvest fair. I come with an empty sack and a watering can. You are standing beside your wagon, you make to say: “I was waiting for you to come”. I am taken by surprise I begin to ask, “Why were you waiting? What kept you From going further into the frontier?” You gaunt face Stops me, I read your story by scanning it with Blind eyes. Your face is crisscrossed in Braille.

You are tired and thirsty. I am hungry and tired. We sit, I tilt the can and start to pour. Drink now, drink deep. This water is all I can give. Other things can wait. Other things we can later decide.