Scorn Fields

Scorn Fields

Why are your hands empty?

After so much reaping, 

you should be full with harvest

Even though the grass is dry

and the feline mouths thorny,

you wait for the replenishment

Wondering how the world

got like this, just like this,

so plain and cruel

They say it’s all about perception

They say many things

and you listen, out of habit

Your hands are tired

but you hold on to the hope

that the wait will be worth it

Believing that a canyon

full of ferns might turn

into a flatland of crops

You remain, incredulous 

and they don’t care

And they never will

So release your air cups

your plates of sand

and crumbling journals

Take to the hills, the lake,

as your exhales dispel

the iniquity of their scorn