"The Patient" by Ephraim Scott Sommers

My bent back invades to a melodyOf metal scrape -- the disturbed earth droppingIn throw pillows -- I till the soil with a spade,And beneath the sour orange tree, a chickenSings in guttural clicks, beak and talonDusting aside the underbrush. One man canDig a long way on a hot day. Salt seeps throughMy sleeves, falls between clod and pulled weedIn drops, a hailstorm of handleless spoonsAcross a land of incomplete boot prints.And so many weeks before seed becomes bean,Or lemon cucumber, or zucchini. Farm hands,Before stealing the first taste, let their fruit ripen.Surrounded by the heat of this field here,Where a dry tongue defends against swallow,I am learning that I must hammer and hoe,And shovel and sweat and weed and water.This is what it means to wait for someone.