the farmers, hard, winter toughened
Minnesota plains, quiet men
have been spreading manure

the wet fields sink the
green or yellow tractor
wheels into the muck

that the melted snow
has given to us once again,
stuck almost above the rims

(maybe that is why they paint
them such a bright yellow)
but these men press on

as though maybe denial, hard
work and quiet lives could let
them, too, walk on water

against this last assault
of winter, these men
work to renew the life
of the fields with compost

every spring, like tulips
pressing up through the
frozen slush, reaching for

the promise of warmer days,
too early, once more, asking,
has this gift been received

with thankfulness?