The Field

Yesterday’s yesterdays jumble and pile.


I wake,


and walk — 


again.

I shuffle with leaden legs in numbing rhythm, 


rousting a sacred cloud that accompanies


my tracing of Hope’s path.



Spent flora, trapped in brittle nests


offer silent tribute to


by-gone seasons of life.



With dulled eyes skimming 


the frustrated landscape,


I plant with wobbly resolve.

And wait.



I return


to this Field of Promise


a beggar — 


again.

Dank grayness surrounds me; 


I’m chilled —  


from the inside out.



Hushed tormenting sameness


tensions my faith


toward thinness.



A violent tumult of


what is, what isn’t, and what should be


usurps all cognition.

Dear God, Sower of this Field —

 
Wrestle life from


the starved soil


of this bewildered soul.

Rake, pull, tear, and burn


my prideful thatch.



Plow the deadness


into furrows of grace.



Water and Light, 


come nourish my anguish.



Release in me a joyful submission


and patience’s fruit.



Call forth a sprig of green.

For tomorrow I’ll wake, 


and walk to this Field again.