last year’s barley

the rain here is something
            crystalline 
                       and unbreakable 
in the mornings. 

darkening the white sage 
           gathered 
                      in small rumors
of perfume 

and scoring trenches 
            in the fresh-tilled 
mud. 
  
yet, still the sparrows 
            ripple and trill
                       on the cedar 
fence

while the earth, so eagerly
           wounded 
                      in spring,
is bloodied black. 

until it seems
            that it doesn’t 
                     even resemble a body anymore,
this life.

so i watch the farmer
            in the rain 
                     swinging
his old sickle,

cutting low 
            last year’s barley
instead.