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.