Finding comfort in
holding a loaf of bread like
children enduring
the London bombings
the farmer kneels before
summer’s field, stale bread
in hand, waiting for the earth
to bring her bounty.
In this sheer silence
there is nothing
to do but watch and
wait and remember.
It was not without an
early spring sweat that
layers of fallow ground
have been peeled back
uncovering hitherto
unknown parts,
opening dark places
to the sun’s gift.
From whence does
the courage and wisdom
come for this great
kenotic act?
What foolish wisdom
is embedded in the
sower’s heart that
yields to this death before life?
It is the memory
residing in the God
imaged cells that
makes the sowing possible.
The tiller breathes deeply
Summer’s sweet aromas,
a teasing anticipation
of the coming Sabbath feast.
For surely, as in days
gone by, Autumn
as promised, will bring
her gifts to the table.
Fruited wine, earthy bread
will weigh the farmer's
board with a
feast of abundance.
Gathered round with
the whole Oikos
a blessing is given
in gratitude that life is enough.
