There are deep furrows in my soul. Lines of pitted dirt waiting for seeds. Everybody wants to know these days: What's your vision?

I want to know too.

There are easier, cheaper seeds to plant. Shallowly dug holes, dusts of dirt covering over precious lots. What will they do when the rain comes? And the wind? And the searing sun? No, we must go down more deeply, into the dark earth and cover it over with black soil. We know they're there, but no one else does. We know they're there, but sometimes we forget.

Our noses pressed against window panes, our bellies resting on garden perimeters, watching, waiting. The only sign of what's to come is a popsicle stick with Sugar Snap Peas written on it in purple magic marker. Otherwise we'd forget what we planted.

So it is that I've forgotten what I planted. So I'm not sure what I'm expecting to grow.

I pass the coffee shop downtown last night, a For Sale sign is taped to the window: I want to buy it, resurrect it. I wake this morning and want to buy the florist shop for sale in West Potsdam. I see a photograph of a white dress and a happy bride, I want to take pictures of white dresses and happy brides. My phone vibrates this afternoon and I smile at the message, I want to be there too. Anything is better than waiting, forgetting, trying to figure out what lays beneath this dark patch of earth.

What do you want? It's the question that I hate most these days because I don't know the answer and I don't like that. I know it's not right of me to not know what I want.

What I should want is to be happy here, content to serve and live and walk and give and go home every night and do it all again the next day. I should want that. But I don't. No, I don't know what else there is to want either. Because what I want isn't spiritual, it's real, it's tangible, physical, touchable.

What I want is a quickened harvest.