Poem: Playing Pretend


Playing Pretend

There is snow on the fields.
the cornstalks are cut close to the ground,
poking out from the snow an inch or two
like so many soldiers.

The harvest is long past.
and all that remains are these dead stubs
waiting to be plowed under in the spring,
mixing with steaming manure
in preparation for spring planting.

You are not enough a man of science to know
whether this cycle moves things forward,
makes the soil more whole, better able
to grow new seasons, or whether
it is all a slow starvation.

This I know:
There is no place in this world for starving
No true reason to deprive God’s children
of food, love or the father’s blessing. It is a betrayal
of all we pretend to believe.

About this poem. 

I am processing recent news from the church (the larger church, not my personal congregation, whom I love and am constantly proud of.). I’ll likely write more on it later. But for now, there is only the struggle.















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