I'm running the trails in these forgotten fields. Cloud shadows hurry over undulating hills. I race with mesmerizing waves of light. Pretend I'm riding the clouds. The light always wins. I keep playing.
Some of the young boys in this old school didn't get to finish their education. Had to leave early to help on the farm; to groom, plant, irrigate and harvest these long, flat fields in Kansas; these long acres of bountiful wheat.
With dedication, grit and loyalty, they persevered on the prairie, fulfilling their obligations to family survival. Maybe returned to class for the winter. Perhaps paid the price for their sacrifice. You can still find them today, standing out in their fields, looking back at the long horizon of yesterday.
An ocean of sky presses upon this vast desert. Surrounded by a severe landscape, I try to adjust the meaning of these lines. Adapt to the slow passage of time, observe the patient growth of cactus; and the steady growth of my faith.
Accept the slow gift of time being offered as an invitation to your creation. Your long, slow silence resonates within my soul.
Next spring's mystery is now held tightly within the buds of winter trees. Through persistent cold and months of snow, waiting for the sap to rise from the roots; climb the xylem chambers, reach along the branches, tunnel into the twigs, and burst the buds .