Currently, I’m not selling anything
I’ve nothing to sell

I’m letting myself lie fallow.
I’m running to seed.

What I need is a month of Sundays,
A year of them.

Like a well not drawn from
Until water refills.

Like a sacred cow
Not driven.

I’m not asking anything
Of this ground.

I want the shiver of quaking grass within me,
Nothing more.

If there’s mud on my shoes,
Or wisps of straw in my hair,
That’s good.

Mostly, I’m just interested
In loving the world.

The last bird of evening is singing within me.
She’s all I wish to hear