An ill wind
from the West.
a black bird.
A bad omen.
The seeds of Midian
sprout prematurely,
feeling the ground
warm from the wild Chinook.
Months yet until planting,
and many more from reaping;
still, the caterwauling,
mewling of dissension,
hungry stomachs,
and tired minds.
So it is,
in this late season.
Hearts that yearn forward,
remembering the green,
always seem to forget
that the veil must first lift
and our sins must be revealed.
Then,
even after all that waiting,
the foot sucking mud
slogs through our weary bones.
We think we are tested in death,
but no,
we must yet survive rebirth.
HG – 2020
