Turmoil

I lose hope, 

But since I am wired with 

An optimism people born on the plains 
Have to have,

The sort of optimism they have to have 

When they won’t let shit bury them, 

I won’t say that I lose hope, 

I say I have become 

Less optimistic, 

It’s easier that way. 

Churning from gold post-harvest

Into the sturdy stay of winter, 

Some muddy stubbled fields 

Are plowed and planted 

Into winter wheat, though 

Other years they’re chuff for cattle. 

I’ll watch these fields around me 

In their indescribable deepness 

Return to what they do,

Snow piling, ground recharging vibrant,

Life of winter, as it reaches

Toward the spring.

Oh, Creator, oh life-maker

I am listening as I turn to you, and 

Watching while outside my windows 

Early snow comes on

In an autumn just a bit too green,

Though when I cast my eyes to heaven 

Some mighty trees bare perfect 
Architecture, glowing up 

My vision to these still lighter skies.

The garden newly put to bed 

Might grow, might even bloom again,

The ground not sure, in her new truth 

But what that all the life out there 

Might grow and bloom again, and so 

If that’s the way it is 

Why not, I say, so what? 

I’ll just have to figure these things out, 

The way I always do.

More to the point, a somber feeling

Casts shadows and I ask myself just 

Where do I fit in 

In such a new earth coming 

With her changings as she makes the 

Imbalance in a perfect

World her perfect? 

Where shall I be out there? 

For now, the clamor and the turmoil 

Quiet into contemplation, into sleep. 

I remind myself that I can’t do 

Much more than try, and, giving in, 

I tell myself

That has to be enough.