Winter's Sleeping Pasture

It sleeps; nestled against the earth;

Beneath shadowy tresses

Where August breath had scorched its girth

The ghost of summer passes

The choristers of feathered throat

Have fled to kinder arches

As winter’s restless whistle strokes

Bizarrely-twisted marshes

Sweat, toil and sores the farmer bears

To plant spring’s barren fallow

But now he rests; he knows the cares

Of labor soon to follow

And on the ledger’s smudgy page

The balance of his losses

Straps to his heart the tortured faith

That succors farmer’s crosses

It sleeps, nestled against the earth

Before the grand renewal

As springtime seeps, in colored mirth

Toward the cusp of April

And every humble stalk is clad

In crystal-gilded vesture

A wild and winsome wonderland

Is winter’s sleeping pasture

Janet~

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