Resurrection

He leaned into the plow
forming an acute angle
with the ground.
Every muscle tensed
raising small, hard lumps
in the dough of his arms.

The plow was old, and rusted
but otherwise in good shape.
It was the only thing
that his Grandfather had left him.
It hadn't really been left for him,
but Grandfather had left it
in fallow dirt
like cracked cement, filled with
thorny brown scrub.
And he took it.
Oiled it;
Brought it back To life.

Grandfather had grown
pole beans and okra
on that patch.
He was just a boy then,
but he remembered Grandfather
pushing the plow.
The ground coming up willingly.
Like a child called to supper.

Grandfather's sweat fed crops
beans spread to neon green
spiders along the old wooden fence.
Okra, long spiny spears.
In bushes wider than a man.
A lifetime of Grandfather's sweat;
His essence. Buried deep under
that hard frigid ground.
Waiting to grow again.

The ground relented.
The plow's gnarled brown tooth
dug into the earth.
He'll turn the soil, and his neck will change
from blister-pink
to umber,
and the old man will
be resurrected.
From seed to harvest.