A Poem: Growth

I am a field
with deep furrows,
tracks your plough has made to till my soil.

What feels like loss, failure, disaster,
is from your height
a row for sowing seed.

Perhaps I do not recognise
this coming season, for it never having been,
and the crop, a batch untried.

Yes, I am a field starting over,
turned by a blade,
that one day I might send up a tender shoot.

Turn green from rain and sun,
and understand the ploughing of the heart
was necessary to bring about a yield.

– there are new harvests in us,
perhaps we have just not imagined this one yet

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
August 2020