Lost Property

Everything I collected I put in the bag —
a bag that grew bigger
even though thoughts take up little space
on their own

I carried it with me wherever I went,
on foot or carried by wheels
that made almost no sound between the months
…until August

A month of rest? Maybe sharpen the blades,
top up the oil and check the plugs;
wipe off the dust from the field
that collects like chalk at the foot of an old classroom board

By the end of the month we’ll
see the results of the harvest —
and though there will be more than ever
in the winter shed

we will somehow be hungrier