William A Gardner
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Fields of Harvest Dreaming
Perfect promise standing unsure in fields of fecund grain
Where colored clouds scud across an amber sky. I wish...
Where can I find an anchor strong against a Kansas storm,
Holding firm feet in the soil and watching sideways, indirect,
Arms smooth and rounded dangling, waiting
Where can the harvest be when time stands still
And I hold my breath to keep from exploding?
Where can the seed's trajectory lead us
Into what future? Mine? Yours?
To live I must let go.
What color is hope?