Fields of Gold
Golden strands wave at me as the psithurism rings
Across the barren fields, stretching like children
Awaiting their mother’s soft caress
Of comfort and presence.
The fabric of dawn drapes vibrantly across the sky,
Bathing babbling waters in a warm glow – slowly burning a path
For the darkness to exit the midnight scape.
Such the same as the stars shine still in the sky
Congregating figures to lead the way,
The sun treks Ra’s journey each night, fighting
Battles within and underneath the surface, in which we
Rise above each new day.
Of the swaying strands of gold with which we
Pluck from the roots only to sell without price,
It is a wonder with which we still remain in the presence
Of such beauty, and yet, we continue to treat it as if it were
Nothing but grains in our hands, of which will dry out.
It is with each breath of wind in my lungs that stirs
Within a deep seeded need, for which I must
Plant and sew with my own bare hands, before
I may blossom into the carnation with which
Mothers water, so daughters may grow to be.
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