Along the path I’m wearing thin
between this place and that
stands a wide field, some years corn
and some years soybeans.
And today,
the corn is shorn close
like the back of a sheep
and the honey wagon trundles along
expelling rich brown manure behind.
They will cut it
into the cooling
earth.
The frost will seal it in, that it may
do the long work of making
the weary ground fertile,
a fit vessel
ready to enfold
new seed, Mary’s arms
encircling her swollen belly.