It is December and the cotton is harvested.
The soil is wet from November rains.
It is too soon to begin the cycle again.
And so you wait, a man older than his years
more worn than his skin would indicate,
you wait for the first warm sun,
knowing things never stay the same,
even this offseason.
Under the soil, there is life.
Under your soul, there is life
even if you cannot see it or feel it.
Things are moving. New seasons are on the horizon.
This is where your patience comes from,
a hundred seasons lived, some vibrant,
some fallow and drenched, empty
as abandoned farmland.
Nothing lasts forever.
Nothing is as dead as it seems.
Ressurection is a warm breath away,
never as far as it seems.
About this poem
Part of what appears to be a series oozing out of a dry spell.
The picture was taken in Surry County, Virginia.