Fields of grain can flow;

may they in barren lands?

Question you might sanity

until comes a gentle hand.

***

Scars and lashes do come

as we move inside this space.

Here upon this weird sphere

the sun does burn our face.

***

What was lush turns raw;

to ash and does make barren

those moments we hold dear

the sun does not spare them.

***

Here you can and will find

contortions of deceitful minds;

at least within the acidic burn

might the sun reveal the kind.

***

Some believe in reckoning,

but why would a God care?

I believe in a simple balance

of tranquility in the air.

***

That moves fields of grain,

though fire it may spread.

Yet sometimes what must live

must at first become dead.

***

How would we know warmth

without winter’s bitter touch?

How could we know wholeness

without knowing what can crush?