Fields in Fog

The hay has been thrashed and lies in rows
waiting for the next warm day,
waiting to be baled and stored
for another day.

Fog fills the horizon, fills the sky
and this early, there is no telling the weather.
Will the sun shine?
Will there be rain?

You sniff the air, as if you were a magician
trying to tell the future,
wondering of today will be a day of harvest
or set back, will the sun dry the rows of hay

of leave them mired, wet and muddy.
There is nothing to do except the hardest thing:
Wait.

About this poem.

There’s a lot going on in my life right now that is out of my control, or even my influence. I can only wait. I suspect that’s painfully common for many of us.

TIm