Such speed, seeds scatter
in wayward winds;
we clutch to clothes
with one hand
barely covering us
and greedily grasp to catch
what we did not plant
with the other

How far the fields
lay fallow waiting
to be tilled by the
hopes of all the Living;
Crossing the threshold
from pain to stain
Stamped and torn
from future’s sight…

Who cares for little ones
in prisons forgotten?
Who mourns the seeker
stripped of well-being?
Where do birds fly
when the air is filled
full of rancor and rifle
that feign protection?

What is to do
for ones who dare
abide the rising
shadows of wall?
How comes the break,
the fissure, the crack
to shatter the granite of
deserted hearts?

Yet still She comes
in ways unnoticed
through doors unopened
and broken passageways
Look for Her now
and grasp Her hand
that catches the seeds
of harvest Omega!

tpt 7/11/18