.
Are you looking at me? I say to the mountain
which moves as I guide the tiller down the row
But maybe it’s not the mountain I address
Are you talking to me? I say to the pale moon
which sits upon the mountain like a ghost ball
But maybe the moon is not the ghost of this conversation
The Briggs and Stratton snorts. The tiller’s deep-treaded
tires turn. The Buddha in the engine barks. Tines
lift secret earth buried beneath tough sod
Are you overseeing me? I say to the crow
who stands off like an incriminating shadow
But the crow may not be the shade to whom I speak
Soon spinach will be sprouting in these rows
The prints I leave in the soil behind the tiller
will have been smoothed over by a rake
Are you reminding me of something?
I say to no one in particular
by Jim Culleny, 4/7/2010
Blink 