Fertile Field
The dark earth breathes a silent potent lung,
Where buried dreams in patient stillness hung.
A canvas vast, unfurrowed, waiting deep,
For life's first tremor, secrets it will keep.
Each clod a promise, tightly held and fast,
Of bursting green when winter's grip has passed.
A silent hum beneath the frozen crust,
Where root and tendril yearn to break their trust
With dormancy to reach for sunlit grace,
And find their purpose in this hallowed space.
The wind sweeps over whispering of rain,
Of golden bounty easing every pain.
The sun descends, a blessing warm and bright,
Awakening the slumbering with its light.
And though it seems a void, a barren plane,
Potential sleeps, a life about to reign.
For in this yielding dark, a power lies,
To answer longing with a sweet surprise.
To take the smallest seed, the weakest start,
And nurture it with nature's beating heart.
This fertile field, a metaphor profound,
Where hope takes root in hallowed waiting ground.
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Bernard F. Asuncion
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