The leeches worm their way, thick and black—I’ve a heart tho, too red & ripe for you.
What a shout of praise will rise
Your words dashed like the emptiness they are
To shatter & scatter, oh the joy
Of watching the final breaking
Of their echoing emptiness
I watch as this army grows and builds
All swords into plowshares & they’ve
Struck deep the sickle, the wheat, weeping
With joy, with fullness, with relief—
The angriness of weeds, well, but of course. Their rushing violence, their harsh words, their roaring screaming of abuses & bindings of small sticky threadlike grasping, tearing at the rigidity of the wheat as they are plucked & torn—
We have stood all season, waiting
And there now is the call to harvest
What is waiting
So out the army goes, ripe & full
Words falling at the wayside
Unstoppable as the storm blows
Remembering not to worry about
The harvest is rich & brimming & those last little seeds are most precious of all.
The doors close. The wind rises. The storm blows.
What shout of praise shall rise
It will deafen & hurl itself in with the winds
The gasp of awe followed by songs of praise
What shout of praise will rise
When finally we see with literal eyes.