Millard Lowe Poet Prose Poetry

Faith Brings the Harvest

FAITH BRINGS THE HARVEST

			Although they go forth weeping
			carrying the seed to be sown,
			They shall come back rejoicing
					Psalm 124

The furrows of our beginnings lie barren: cystic Seeds fallen between the rows; statues of clods
Represent still stages shadowing scenes

Deferred.

Ancient ones, rooted by the river, grow
Like their mother willows: weeping tears
To barren seeds rains have forgotten to fall on.

(Who or what will germinate their souls?)

The plow masters have gone to wilderness:
Wandering trails of bygone labors; the
Plow sheds have gone empty; bellows
Have lost their harvest winds.

Fields, in shadows of mountains, await
The coming of the rain goddess; we
In memories of acacia dreams,
Sprinkle phoenix ashes;

Whispering sacred words 
To dormant seeds we have sown: 
Indeed, faith will bring the harvest.

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