The Harrowing Word
Land lingering fallow,
lines long lost, fallen
seeds scattered to a
Wind silent, secrets
caught in cloister walk,
naught by souls who talk,
but who incline with
listening lust
the inmost ear,
who daily, deeply hear
the Harrow’s toil,
teeth and tine
upon her hardened soil,
Love loosened, broken open,
warm-wet with
resurrection rain,
and ready to retain
the Risen Word,
and be once more anew,
pregnant with poetic dew.