Poetry by Brianroy: Alone in the Fields of Wheat

To what do I have to say, when my day begins?
As across the fields of wheat I look,
while sudden frigid and early frost vapors blew out as my nostrils shook,
and in my gloved right hand steaming coffee fresh cooked;
yet, climbing the tractor, I bang my shin.

For what reasons have I, I think, and think;
as memories billow forth like clouds and then a flood,
while shadows of memories and darkened thoughts stream forth their blood,
and the cries like that of war and shouting,
as if in the howling of the wind, now leap up from the frozen mud?
But finally, I turn the key, and hear "clink, clink."

Why is it so, as it is so, I wonder why;
while pulling back the hood to examine forth?
Checking the wires to and fro,
then reconnecting a fusable link on a wire from the starter down low,
and again turning the key the motor revs up;
as I listen to the wind all around me begin to blow, and sadly I sigh.

Will it ever be, that my life means so?
For the pain of rejection, the laughs, the desire,
makes me wish for having a family of my own ever higher,
as I turn and look to an empty house without a fire...
and the echoes of every single proposal met with no, no, and no.

And so I go, and try to harvest what I can of the fields of wheat;
alone and cold, and gritting my teeth.
The frost biting wind numbs the flesh until I forget the pain,
while I try to harvest what I can,
and keep wondering if it will always be just the same.

But I do complete the harvest, and finish what I needed to do;
and return to the house, feeling and looking blue.
The fire is built, and soon rages forth,
as I sit in a chair before it,
and despite the blurry eyes, take up the Bible and read myself to sleep;
and pray the L-RD, my soul to take and keep;
and pray the L-RD, my soul to take and keep.