The Most Unlikely of Seasons

Nearing June and the winter wheat grows ripe,
thousands of stalks, each with a few grains,
separately nothing, collectively all,
a field of dancers, planted in the most unlikely of seasons,
not unlike yourself, the best parts planted
in the bitterest of seasons, only now becoming golden.

About this poem.

This should be a longer poem. Certainly, the thoughts that started it are long and complex as I have visited with family this week while visiting my favorite aunt, seeing my sisters, cousins, and friends over a few days of presence and conversation. My head is a bit blurred. But one thing that comes of it is how, in the worst of times, the seeds have consistently been planted for a time of particular blessing to come. Living that these days, and it’s not the first time.

Blessings to all of you in hard times. There is hope, not just for survival, but amazingness.

Tom

PS: The picture was taken on the family farm, in June a couple of years ago. Winter wheat, so-called because it is planted in the winter. And harvested in June.

PPS: The poems from this week will start to leak out in the next few days, I am sure. Right now they are all too fresh.