At the edges of the failing year,
Since October when the clocks were changed
The furrows, fields freeze with a wild, stark awe.
Trudging landscapes keen and winter-bare
The lines and lengths artistically arranged
By my eye, this cold day of this year
A single bird flies high with dark winged flair
Insects disappear in sullen rage
The furrows fang the fields with snake-like airs.
Where’s the goat untroubled by a care?
Where’s the lamb they wish to be destroyed,
Unknowing of its future, as Jews were?
See the dead men rising up afar
The eye creates the image and the stage
The furrows stagger, stutter, “here’s the war”
On such themes, imaginations crash
Aching for God’s chosen unto death
Will there be another farmers’ year?
Why do furrows feel like wailing stars?