The Harvest I

This bitter wheat these
Golden crumbs choke my
Throat their dry grains
I cannot swallow for
Water is denied me here
And my own hand soured
What I grew - my worst
Fears are the nightmare I live
Daily here and I must
Put my hand to the plough's
Hardwood and watch its shiny
Metal blade cut the furrows
In my land and throw
My new seeds down, to burst
And grow and hope that my
Next harvest will be sweetly
Built on the back of the
Last and sour.  I am a
Bad sower of good seed - my weeds
Come up rank and fast and
As I clip, they grow.  My
Food is dry and brittle in
My palm, and as I push, push,
And drive my old brown horse
To walk another line, I restrain
My inclination to be Lot's wife
And turn.  But if I do
And if my tears wet more
Of my own grain, I will not be
Fit for God's Kingdom.  This
Land is hard won and will not
Yield me bread that I can
Eat.  It makes me choke
And I have such a drouth.
I wait, and hope that
It will rain and all my new seeds
Will grow sure and firm.

previous poem