I want to praise
the harrow,
first for its name,
which when I write it,

and that (as I remember)
is a collection of iron points
is like unto what it is,
held together by
a wide and wooden frame.

Nothing about 
the harrow is harrowing—
leave that to the mower
or the combine.

The harrow comes
after the disk, which comes
after the plow. The plow
was yesterday; the harrow
is now.

For the harrow rides
over the field, it moves
like a stream over rock,
like rain on the roof.

For when the world
is turned inside
out, the harrow
slips it back into 
its skin again.