I don't know if it was a good harvest
The fields stretch bare and dry
Under fierce August sun.
Shorn dry sticks greet the sky.
Nothing moves.
After the harvest is barren time.
How does the bounty taken
Compare to the desolation
That remains.
I'm on the margins, always
With wild oats and woodspurge
Gleeful scarlet pimpernel
Wild rye, and clover.
Here is wealth and abundance
Dancing butterflies.
If I pluck ripe fruit from hedgerows
I will leave lushness behind me.
Abundance for all, berry rich.
Out in the field I glean stalks
As ancestors of poverty would
Have done in centuries past
Backs bent for hours, seeking
The fallen grains that might
Nourish the most desperate.
Three heads only do I take
For the symbolism, not the need.
The land remembers reaping
A community in harvest,
Working together to bring the grain
Home in glorious sheaves.
I have made harvest loaves
But never walked the wheat field
For the gathering in.
Machine driven, we take all
Leave the dry and empty remains
A harvest of life, without stories
Diversity only at the margins
After the crop is taken.
Tempting to see the human tale
Of bad choices made.
We take too much, too much
In our excess we make a world
Too barren for our flourishing
Too dry, and lifeless.
Coax back the cheerful pimpernel
The living abundance of nature
Bring back from the margins
What should be in all places.
Flowers, insects, birds, life.
Life is what we are missing
From these mistaken harvests.
We sacrifice so much to gain
So very little.
No comments:
Post a Comment