The Fields of Expectation
A Poem on Furrowing & Fruit
Dear Crew of The Broken Binnacle,
My apologies, I failed to post a poem last Saturday due to a close cousin’s wedding, but I am right back at it with an original (perhaps this is where some of you wish I had failed to post this time around as well. Allow me the self-deprecation).
I can’t remember where I was first struck by the phrase “furrowing the fields of expectation,” but I think the seed of the notion was planted on my last work trip to Israel where all expectations, even if they are overwhelmed or underwhelmed, will be furrowed. As such, this poem is an unripe fruit of that seed, and hopefully more time and furrowing will bring about richer and riper fruits.
Enjoy your weekend and have a blessed Saturday!
Life is furrowing the fields of expectation;
Friends, strangers, & moments sow
Varied seeds upon young souls;
The rain of time is slowly washing young anticipation,
Yet dreams of youth, like twitching thread,
Mustn’t snap from that great Spool.
Weeds and blossoms grow alike. The blissful sun repeats
His sailing round the earth again
And from the East he slowly peeps,
And night he seems to tuck the sky under blackened sheets;
The chirp at dusk—a lullaby
To sing each day to sleep.
The farmer old has heard such tunes upon the morning’s tide
As he sets hand upon the wheel
To furrow patient soil;
And he remembers fruitful seeds that brought forth beauty pied,
When love was planted in his heart
Such fruits shall never spoil.
Happy birthday to the both of you.