The Furrow

Barley then barley then barley.

Same acre, same rain, same rot.

My father died facing the ground

and they called that a good life.

There is water past that ridge.

There are people past that water.

I have worked out the years I have left

and it is not a large number.

I will not die in this furrow.

I will not be turned under

by an ox and a wet spring.

There is a boat with my share in it.

They say the wise stay put.

The wise are also poor.

Odin keeps no seat back

for a man who dies in straw,

and the wise go in the ground

under the exact same acre.

I will not die in this furrow,

and when they ask what took me

it will not be a plough

and it will not be waiting.

I will not die in this furrow —

I burned the fence for the crossing,

walked out on my own ground,

and never once looked at it again.