Not all things are blest, but the
seeds of all things are blest.
 —Muriel Rukeyser, “Elegy in Joy”


Your memory of the seeds
is almost enough to sustain you,
like those big bags of mixed alfalfa and timothy
your father bought at Kaija’s Feed & Tack.
The bags were torn open and poured into the hopper,
the hopper dragged across the field
behind the tractor, the seeds
dropped into soil the plow had wrenched open.

And when summer came
and the field blossomed with thistles and tansy,
your father said nothing,
only frowned and turned away.

Even so, the table had to be set for supper.
Mother, Father, brothers, sisters,
all heads bowed, your mother’s hand
on the metal tray of the highchair
to keep the baby from banging her spoon
as your father blessed the food, blessed
the hands that prepared it.

The path through the field leading to the creek,
a flock of ravens scattering at your approach,
their raucous praise.