Harrow, the wheat is wet by the summer rains
Slice and chop the chaff and crop every last grain
Upon my face the heat and warmth of the touch
Inside my heart the fire of the hate
Crop and cut and the burn the stubs
I can’t feel the same
The hill above is coved with clover and sundew and pain
I grip in my hands my mothers crown and perhaps fame
But am I my mothers child, or is it just her name?
In court we haggle, in offices we barter, we trade friends and play power games
Do they give the chance to those like me whom have not the brain?
No we crop the soil and tend the earth, when they bite on there good they thank us none the same
But the hill is always there, and the wheat. I am here cropping the wheat. A bug has eaten its pollen, and a worm has eaten the chaff. I will also be eaten one day.
Eaten, and consumed, like eyes on a perfect page of poetry that makes you feel insane.
Punctuated instance of roughness felt like stubble upon a freshly shaved face
Gathering no motion in the resistance of the traveller a hillock rises upon the motion
Soft but ever patience is the cape of pleasure that travels over the hill to a new foundation
Dug but over the field a tightness of a flickering light
Stolen kiss, thief of presence by the ancient giants under the sun rays
A electric pulse, a sun sets, withdrawn animation
We wryly wake in new fields of green
It’s us again
In the embers of spring I warm the cackles of my heart. My hair aflame, rosy red like fresh loam cut by a silver hand.
Black ash crumbles and dries in my hands as I spread it on the cherry leaves. The slugs that parasite it’s essence shrivel in the sun. I feel sad for then but know enough will survive to pass to the next generation. They will also have me to spread the spring ash on there leaves. I look and see the ever ripening cherries, I mutter a pagan prayer and bless the leaves in summer. Wind picks some of the ash and takes it far away.
Peace and the fog come in autumn. Both old friends together they blanket everything in their grasp. I feel as covered and comfortable with them as I do with my jacket and jeans. A freshly born baby in a blanket, cooing to herself. The bath water is warm but still.
Winter earthy frost. Still. Dark. Nights. Fear and truth walk hand in hand in a brothership of equals. The earth comes out of her ancient home and takes a cup to every tree and every animal. Some drink, some don’t. The old green man, her husband takes those who have-not drunk, lights little candle under those who have.
Then a fire is lit in a old grove. It leaves the ash ready for spring.