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Fields of heaven

Scepter Publishers

By Alena Carter

Fields of Heaven

A wheat-field flits by,
Fall-gold in the light of a late sleeping sun.
A small patch of unearthly gold - 
Great-gold, solemn-gold;
Seeds, silent explosions of Life,
Crying out without a sound,
Rapture rupturing earth and air - 
For it is a field of heaven.

     

Shaved cornrows line the dark earth.
Glinting golden roadmarkers make straight paths:
Different roads, 
One Way,
Narrowing and ending in one point of gold,
Crying, "Follow me!"
For this, too, is a field of heaven.

   

A vast congregation of cornleaves:
The multitude lift their golden faces to the Sun,
Hold up their many husked hands,
And cry, like silent trumpets, with one unheard voice:
"He is coming! He is coming! He is coming!"
For this, too, is a field of heaven.

     

A little later - a small field with cottony film:
A few clouds that fell from Up-there,
And are content now
To rest on some small gold grass,
Just like their big brothers resting on spears of sun - 
For this, too, is a field of heaven.

   

Perhaps some careless angel dropped these
In laying out the land above.
Or perhaps the great-God made it so, 
Piecing parts of Paradise
So that the patchwork peeks out - 
The Way, the Truth, the Life, and Where they lead - 
But only when the Sun touches it:
A moment,
And it is earth again. 

   

A cemetery.
A white blocky building mars the view of gold
And tombstones crookedly pierce the patchwork.
Why is this here?
No - one may ask that question of an office building -
A true incongruity in a world of eternals - 
But this? 
This is a place of peace,
Labor of love,
Soul-soil.
See?
A glint of gold on the stones!
It was left by those who lie here, and those who laid them here.
Perhaps all the ugliness of this  world
Still cannot hide the beautiful gold - 
Perhaps have only to look longer,
Give the pain of searching for the joy of finding.
This too, then, is a field of heaven.

   

I turn my head.
A flash of gold!
Startled, I turn again.
It was only a curtain of hair that swung between me and the sun.
I startle again at a flash of golden insight:
Like the fields, I let light, give gold...
Therefore I, too, must be a piece of the patchwork;
I, too, must hold within me, under my earthly flaws,
The Way, the Truth, the Life, and Where they lead;
I, too, must be a field of heaven.

 

I am God's wheat, and I shall be ground by the teeth of beasts, that I may become the pure bread of Christ.

-St. Ignatius of Antioch



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