There are frozen furrows in the Earth where
the plow made love to Terra.
It looks so pitiful in the dead of winter, with
no vegetable detritus on the ground to attest to any
kind of harvest.
For control over the forces of nature,
many have struck a blade into the earth and ruptured her
trust in spring. They say that when your cart is full of corn, it
is easy to counsel frugality to your neighbors.
This would have been a killing field, had the seeds been planted.
Had control been granted.
But it is icy.
Here the weak sun is rising to cast its pall light
on the scape where the would-be prometheus collapsed,
and his ventricles ceased to allow his defiance of the