November Field
The work is done, the harvest completed
In this field stand its reminders
Torn stalks, some standing, some leaning
Some lying flat upon the cooling ground
Which bears the deep tracks of the combine
The trees at the edge have dropped their leaves
Their year is done, so now they’ll sleep
In their bare limbs a squirrel can be seen
Loading her store for the dark months ahead
Within a protected hollow
The sky is off the air, its broadcast concluded
Gone are the bright blues and billowing white clouds
The fireworks of thunderstorms, an ended series
The National Anthem has been played
Leaving only white gray static above
Looking at these things, one might despair
For all that is finished or what has been lost
But the heart sees beyond the world in light
To peer into the hidden and dormant places
Sensing the unending spiral of renewal
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