I See The Rows Going By

I see the rows going by They seem so far away, though mere feet: Going on forever; rows of green plants laid out straight Endlessly going by me; their greenness seemingly disconnected From their animate yearning, for color and texture Bestowed by sun, rain and season. I see the rows going by And I think then, that I am another sort of plant: The kind that comes up anywhere; but to no obvious purpose Perhaps not in the best of places, or the right time or reason Of indeterminate color and habituation. And I feel more distant, than the farthest end of the row If it reached halfway around the world, without ever ceasing. I see the rows going by And they have been there; peacefully growing, for ages now: Have known the oxen's plodding; the farmer's ready hoe, The combines turning; the truck load's careening. My yield is different too; it turns on a different track. Many years might go by, before anything is harvested; And it may be a flower, or it may be a weed. But somehow I know that I will still be there, Inside of whatever it finally makes of itself.