You have taught me hard how to hold on to thistles
while holding the wheat,
the art of not losing the crop
just to soothe the long ache that the thistle brings as it bites and burrows beneath my skin.
How you have become the very
thing that I must always lay down,
so that my arms can carry more thistle, pick up the plow, blister my hands, work the soil for the honey golden wheat.
You will not see my labors
here but you know them.
I know some of your tears.
I have bled some of your sweat,
and the rain will not wash it away.
What a wide wide field,
far reaching from East to West.
And the sun is still noon high.
I don’t know if I will
see the honey in your eye
as sun sets and rest comes
over this land.
After harvest, the table of eucharisteo will be large enough for all of us.
I will give thanks for you there in that farmhouse without walls as I do in the hot and toiling field.
I will give thanks for your bowed head and heart and blistered hands.
We will give thanks for the cool breeze that finally plays upon our necks as we laugh together again.