Is there any hope at all
in the pale dawn?
Threshing out
what we’ve been growing all summer.
Winnowing the harvest,
wheat from chaff,
Paradise from Purgatory.
Leaning on the old scythe,
muttering bits of scripture,
even the reaper knows
the signs read true.
Old eyes see a new day.
More work for idle hands.
More mouths to be fed.
More pages to be read.
More wood needs chopping.
Cradle to grave,
no escape.
Life in between,
cycling through revolutions
and all things change.
Can’t trap the moment.
Just as the crop
can’t stay in the ground.
Hope might not be
a silver spoon of fresh honey,
but it will be calloused hands,
a bent back,
and a full belly.
Strong arms,
a new bow string,
an accurate rifle,
and meat until spring.
The sun intensifies its glow.
Dull grey,
begins to show shades of deep reds,
pink, purple, and blue.
Chases the shadow off the prairie
for one more day,
so that the work may be revealed.
God’s hand
on the heart of the farmer.
God’s breath
in the air that fills our lungs.
There is hope,
but only if it is grown,
sown,
tended,
harvested,
and shared.
No one stands alone.
Full daylight now,
the work
already underway.
DJR – 2023
