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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The earth shudders and the dust of a thousand years lifts into the sky like a blanket thrown up in exultation and beneath this blanket plates grind together in sudden need A craving to bring dried and edged flesh with the moisture of the oceans above together once more and cry out in the joy of ecstasy to release their pressure And be at once reconciled And the world let’s out its breath, gives up what is most sacred to it in reverence of this Moment: And I dare say this moment is mine, to the child that toiled the fields hoe in hand and the patterns in the soil the patterns in the soul through which water poured and escaped in pores like water through a parched man’s fingers and patterns fled this farm Leaving a parched man lamenting the presence of fingers in times of thirst, And to the child toiling in the fields the pattern is in the pitch of his shoulders and the pounding of the sun the pattern that should never seep through unseen holes but it seeps down his back and across his fingers upon his hoe it dribbles down and finds the escape of patterns long lost and the sweat of his toil slips through the gaps in his soil and the heaving of his shoulders is lost with the patterns, So this old farmer he does not tread his fields, sheltered behind wood and warmth of fire he huddles in his world of four walls and dares not the fields outside Where await the failures of his toil, and when the earth shuddered in joy of this moment Knowing in its wisdom all that was to be known the earth shudders and the dust of not so many years It lifts into the sky like a blanket thrown up in exultation And beneath it all Sees the farmer The pattern of his toil And lo and behold It was not wasted But a hands width beneath The soil that caked his world And by his own hand Hidden as it were The patterns of his toil And the story that is told Bittersweet In the exultation of a breath Let go.
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