Wordless in the spring sunshine

I haven't written anything for months
(save words strewn from the pulpit by the bucketload,
which I assumed, foolishly,
came from somewhere other than my own storerooms).
Now I am afraid
that there is nothing left.
I have spent the seed corn.
Other hands have seized it;
every last grain swept up from the tiled floor,
and carried off.
My own bare earth,
harrowed, broken down by frost, and waiting,
silently rebukes me.

Here I stand,
wordless in the spring sunshine,
hoping that somewhere in a skirt's fold,
lodged in a dusty pocket,
one unscattered seed remains
which called to growth with contrite promises of loving care,
will fill a field.

April 27th 96