So here am I faced with the broken earth
And still shuffle the seeds I know are worth
Scattering with care to bare harvest full.
To fulfil this task I feel my heart pull…
Late is this sowing, from seasons of doubt.
Cracks in ceramic armour filled with grout
Should still stand the blows destined in this task.
To live through the ordeal is all I ask!
Not to fall like the front line soldier;
A plough’s broken blade bitten by boulder,
Left to rust where it lay from its toil,
Or like shards of a pot lost in the soil,
Like a jigsaw history not to be found,
Or as fragments of bone lost in the ground
Without place in the present hearts of mine;
Cast to the archives of moments in time.
I sow tomorrow’s seeds with sword in hand
And face earth and sky and hope they have planned
To work side by side to offer the rain
That shatters seed case to grow out the pain,
So with sweat and due care, one day I stand
To rejoice in crops that with these two hands
I harvest to nourish the core of my soul
Which in return whispers “you life is whole;
Lay down your cold sword and rest now my son,
As there is no end to what you begun.”