From the Growing Dark
Don Hynes
The good farmer treads the same ground
year after year, ploughing, seeding, reaping,
following the moon in the ancient rhythm
of gathering and letting go.
I am ploughing again,
the ground hard and brittle, stones rising;
my horse strains and falters, reaching for a purchase,
steel buried in stubborn knots.
At the end of the row we turn back,
hands and legs aching against the traces,
the sun low in the sky with much yet to do.
Finding solace in the few rows complete
I welcome the dusk
the peace that comes with evening.
The mornings work is certain, labor pressing,
but strength rises from the Earth.
I continue in faith for the long cycle
my brief time echos
in communion with the night sky
brilliantly emerging from the growing dark.
Don Hynes