A Field at Winter Solstice

For the sullen,

There is, in a wheatfield buried in snow,

Silent coppercold comfort.

As if, with the drowning out of jubilant life

there resides in the Earth empathy deep as frost

wrapped like tentacles around

roots long ago

thrust into the

silent, silent, soil tomb.


To the prodigal,

the golden roiling wheatfield’s waves—

now hushed—

whisper life unbegun:

the wintry soil barely suppressing the

trembling seeds,

tremulous life still captive.


Death and life,

beneath the Earth:

begetting one another—

each the other’s beginning and end,

each the other’s shadow,

each the other’s

meaning beneath the wintry meadow.

Published in: on January 8, 2008 at 7:42 pm  Leave a Comment  

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