Rising in the mist of this gray winter,
I long for the clear cool of autumn,
the pleasant blues of October’s vast skies
stretching from dawn to dusk,
to hear the rattling husks of harvests,
to sift the ripened grains through my fingers
and linger in the slow shift of fading light.
But first must come the spring
with its stinging beauty,
an eruption of green singing through
the rain and mud,
blood and sweat poured into earth,
the planting of the season
and all the reasons for hope
shackled in the seed.
Hope that can abide the long dry needs of growing,
the tempests of knowing storm and drought,
the tempting doubts when the west wind
sends its greatest testings
and houses are sometimes ripped from
their ancient foundings
and fields turned into a twisting
of what was meant to be.
And yet, most survives to autumn,
stands to the harvest,
blessing the plough and planting
and yielding to the rough rests of winter.
The earth will have its seasons
and I will find more than I need
of reasons for rising
in the mists of early dawn,
fashioned from the clay,
touched by the hand of God
and breathing the promise of eternity.