The frost lies hardened on the frozen ground,

the trees encased in glassy slips of ice.

A lonely raven calls across the field

of silent white. The air is fresh and hard.

I stand outside among my fields and look

down at the rows of dying, stubbled corn:

the husks of harvest—gone until the spring.

The church bells ring: a high and heavy sound

that fills my heart with longing—and with fear.

For soon I’ll kneel on rough-hewn wooden planks,

hear holy words I cannot comprehend.

The Virgin gazes knowingly at me,

her face a hue of greens and reds and blues,

she sees that I get nothing from the rite.

The body of our Lord that once was bread

and looks just like it too, tastes old and stale.

The freezing church feels colder than the fields.

I stoop to pick some earth from off the ground.

Clods of earth, the dirt from which we come,

fashioned by the High Cathedral God.

And deep inside I feel an aching pulse

to know a lord who cares for ploughmen,

a king who rescues me from tired work,

the endless plowing for eternal life.

The frost lies hardened on the frozen ground,

the trees encased in glassy slips of ice.

I raise my eyes and look across the fields,

and long for spring.

–

–

–

–

–

–

–

–