Fields of Stone

In this season of dormancy,

the oxen labors, each day

removing the stones from the field.

The yoke around the animal’s neck,

straining against the natural

and hardened muscles in its shoulders.

Harnessed to a cart, hand-crafted for its chore,

each wheel moves hazardously

in and out of the furrows of the field.

The rough sawn lumber of the floor and sides

made smooth and painfully gouged from years of labor.

The bed of the cart filled

with stones so perilous to the plow.

Stones that emerge each year,

naturally, from the coming of the seasons.

The freeze and thaw,

the upheaval of the earth,

bringing forth duties that must be attended.

And so it is with you,

and me.

Each morning we rise

and place a yoke over our head.

We harness ourselves to our own cart,

a tool constructed solely for our use.

An elemental unit, scarred by our past,

made honest by its duty.

Leaning forward,

we pull this device into our own field,

negotiating the perils of the earth,

removing the stones made visible by the seasons.

But for us, the seasons are not so clear,

not so predictable.

Dormancy, new birth, growth, and harvest

come in varied and often conflicting rhythms.

This is the nature of our lives,

the contradictions of our being.

                                                - flc