Yield

Beneath a fog that bids a slower morning,

I stare out toward the shallow depth of field,

filled with juts of cotton tufts adorning

land assumed and never meant to yield

 

the fibrous plumes the soil is enriching,

entrenching all the boons the order brings.

I assume that never once the farmer stitching

seeds in soil considered all these things:

 

treaties left ignored since their first reading

that might forbid the planting of his means.