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