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(Apropos Our Children)
Although they go forth weeping
carrying the seed to be sown,
they shall come back rejoicing…
Psalm 126
The furrows of our beginning lie barren:
Cystic seeds have fallen between the rows;
The mosaic clods---stilled stages of dreams deferred.
The ancient ones, rooted by the rivers,
Have grown like willows: weeping tears
To seeds the rains have forgotten to fall upon.
(Who will cultivate their souls?)
The plow masters have gone to wilderness;
Wandering trails of bygone labors.
The plow sheds have grown quiet; the winds
Of harvest have lost their bellow.
Fields---in the shadows of mountains---
Eagerly await the coming of the rain goddess.
In full memories of acacia dreams,
We sprinkle phoenix ashes,
Whispering sacred words to dormant seeds
We have sown.
Indeed---
Faith brings the harvest.
