I listen to the men working
on digging a long deep trench
across the road.
Now, no way to get in,
no way to get out.
How appropriate a metaphor
don’t you think-
we are here, either in place
or out in the world,
each with our own freedom in tact.
But we can’t get in or out
of this old world alive,
don’t you know.
And how will the nice lady
who delivers the mail
and gives the small dog treats
ever find her way
with our unasked for mail.
They wish to take some time,
if the room is still available,
for words and thoughts
to congeal-
the way left fallow.
Fields undone as last night’s argument.
Each shall return to the place of their beginning.
Manumission of the indentured souls
shall be relieved of their suffering.
Sewing not the ruptured,
sowing not the fields, emptied.
Fields undone as last night’s wrath.
The decisions to be made
will make each aware
of the secrets and courage which
brings justice to the birds
on the verge of the turned earth.
Fields undone as last night’s tears.
Shout jubilee!
All debts are forgiven,
all fields left fallow,
in the year of seven times seven.
thecourseofourseasons 