I'm scattering pelletized sulfur
with the same gesture I
would make were I sowing rye,
cupping roughly the same measure
in hand and aiming only vaguely for
the furrows Quill is making.
He takes more care than I am taking
in straightly steering the tractor.
We keep passing one another,
he leaning over to keep the tire
in its track, as if an invisible wire
ran from one end of the field to the other,
while I, less exact, am sowing
a crop that will never sprout
but that the potatoes can't live without.
What I'm doing will get them growing.
I am as pelletized sulfur is to seed,
here only to disappear
and help something green appear,
something people actually need.