Jen L. Steward
Entangled fingers, gliding through
Fields of golden grass.
Fistfuls leaving patches,
Exposing the scorched, cracked dirt.
No amount of fertilizer could ever
Reverse the damage.
There has been a drought for too long,
Even though it’s always cloudy.
The birds have left, unlucky to find worms.
The farmers have tried all they could,
But nothing worked.
The fields of uneven length get more and more prominent,
Making it difficult to cultivate.
For something made by God, it rejects itself.
Fistfuls of golden grass, forever escaping in intertwined hands.
