Each day I go into the fields to see what is growing and what remains to be done. It is always the same thing: nothing is growing, everything needs to be done. Plow, harrow, disc, water, pray till my bones ache and hands rub blood-raw with honest labor— all that grows is the slow intransigent intensity of need. I have sown my seed on soil guaranteed by poverty to fail. But I don’t complain—except to passersby who ask me why I work such barren earth. They would not understand me if I stooped to lift a rock and hold it like a child, or laughed, or told them it is their poverty I labor to relieve. For them, I complain. A farmer of dreams knows how to pretend. A farmer of dreams knows what it means to be patient. Each day I go into the fields.