Mud Season

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

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