What is this place? Let us say, perhaps, a field surrounded by gardens, lying fallow for no reason, unexpected; the world off and running, gardens growing wild and moving away at nearly the speed of light, throwing off stars like so much unpicked fruit; not like this earthen place, such sudden stillness. We are here by the grace of our quiet; skilled from many harvests we arrive in the humbleness of what is yet unharvested. We make a vow: out of fallow ground to draw a life, and two lives, grains of wheat and corn for food, for love; our tilling harsh and joyful, at the last the work of our caring, and our hands. Yet we prize always, amid the tangible ripeness, the unsown ground, the private place as near as a fallow glance. At once a fertile field and undiscovered, this place accommodates each one of us, betraying nothing.