Rainfall and Vines

. . . my true / self is underground like a potato. At the opera
I will think of rainfall and vines. In my dreams
all my corn may grow short but the ears will be
full. If you kiss my forehead on a dark moon
in March I may disappear - but do not be afraid -
I have taken root in my grandfather's
fields: I am hanging my laundry beneath his trees.

from the poem Fields by Faith Shearin, from The Owl Question.