Easing the land into one long-plotted scene,
we stroke grass into piles with the rake.
Earth's face goes quiet, moved to a docile green
tinge blushed for other eyes, not for our sake.
Harrow the lawn, pack leaves of grass to loam,
flatten the seed-tall walls that would twist and sigh
around us, carve down the rooted caves that foam
with causeless silence, kill the lace-long sky.
Why harvest a grain whose worth is to remain
and ignore the seeds, leaving the yield unkept,
trudging lost kernels to such empty gain?
Won't we have reaped until we've stopped and swept
all the harvest away? Must we stand to see
our plain land lie with hands open, and empty?