Cadmus Sows

           After Vincent Van Gogh, The Sower, 1888

The goddess said to sow by moonlight
and I obey.

The full moon is yellow
as a lemon and its shadows
render fields a tender violet.

The world is so quiet
I can hear the breathing
of a tree just leafing out.

I wonder if such peace
is what the farmers know,
who sow not warriors
but wheat,

who need not meddle with revenge,
nor establishment of cities,
all the rigmarole of kingship,
all the tragedy and bloodshed.

I reach into the pouch
and pull out dragon-teeth,
they fly from my hands
in the near-darkness.

Instead of soldiers,
couldn’t they become
black marks upon a page
and bring forth poems
instead of war?

If I could invent an alphabet,
I would compose a poem

in which there’s only a moon
swollen with hope,

a tree that leans in, longing,
from the shadows,

a sky so full of promise
it’s grown green

and me,
sowing seeds.