Poem, Scenic, Short story


With a face toward the ground to toil, the familiar sight of earth.

Of grass and weeds, half eaten seeds and grooves cut into soil.

What must this sweat nourish the fields, for why else would it come?

But to cause me to stop and drink again I find a waste of time I could use.

Oh how these fields will grow and bloom, to green from barren bare.

And to those beasts I keep for meat, how too they toil in their way.

To feed upon the grass of a field I will use again next year, to grow again crops to sow and reap, to feed throughout heat and desolate snow.

It is for me to suffer and toil, it is what must be done.

So look up to me, dear child of mine as I look down to you.

Your stature so small, to be grand one day and have little ones of your own to run around.

But for now look up, as I must look down, for while you can, you can still see to dream of the heavens.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s