The Field

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I stand at the edge of
the Field that I knew.
I remember the amber,
the richness, the dew
that fell from the heavens
like sapphire beads.
I can still see the soil
dark—rich as rubies.
Yes, here lies the spade—and
there stands the plough
Bound to the earth—

long Depleted.

Bereft.

I cry in the night—and
I cry in the day:
Why do my crops wilt
in the sun’s scorching ray?
The fire from heaven—and
the floods of the Land
avail my field nothing—
consumed by the sand.

What fruit have you yielded?
What harvest? What gold?
I see nothing but darkness—
I feel nothing but cold.
I know not where to turn,

for this soil, unyielding,

gives me nothing but darkness—

leaves Nothing but cold.

I am bound to the Land
as the spade and the plough.
Though the richness is gone,
As the amber—Still—Now
I labor—I strive to restore,
though I know that my Field
falls abject evermore,
for my gold does not tarnish:
my labor—my Yield.





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