The merchant returns,
the port cheers him and there he anchors,
to resupply his empty hold.
Old farmland horses pull carts down the docks
to his great vessel.
the sea-drenched harbor,
smells of salt moisten the air.
Wooden wheels clatter
past rowing fishermen
who’ve come to port
from the City’s warrens
for the morning market
opening onto the bay and brine,
the merchant poises his back
and locks his neck, clapping his hands
with festive shouts
reading the docket,
and to insure this voyage’s goods,
he eyes the curious mariners
asking him about the itinerary
and ready to work
Unloading and hauling, his sailors arrange
the fresh crates in aisles and towers,
But one plunges and cracks
against the long planks of the dock.
The men push with their legs
and hoist the box
onto the ship
The merchant frowns, for his cargo
poured a trail of seeds
splashing in the bay, rippling forth,
along the dock, being crushed under heels,
this great gift dropped, lost in the waters.
He gathers handfuls rescuing them in his pockets
and spurs his crew aboard
to stow the good seed in the ship’s dark belly.
The merchant orders his mooring lines loosed
and sails to fallow grounds,
carrying life against famine
for revitalizing the dormant earth,
increasing the field’s borders
and for planting new fields,
sowing abroad his resting freight
unto ends from north and south,
in all nations from east to dusk.