On The Field Which They Reap
"Then he said to his servant who was in charge of the reapers, "Whose maiden is this?" And the servant who was in charge of the reapers answered, "It is the Moabite maiden, who came back with Na'omi from the country of Moab." from the Book of Ruth 2:5
"When Boaz had eaten and drunk, and he was in a contented mood, he went to lie down at the end of the heap of grain. Then she came stealthily and uncovered his feet, and lay down." Ruth 3:7
There is a tenderness to this air,
a turn of light
like a note poised to sing out~
A sound so long desired,
at the way it pierces sorrow.
And pressing low our heads,
kiss the hand of
the same God we once cursed,
mocked bitter a moment's passing
into so many cruel eternities~
and silent watching.
Yet all is forgiven now
in this new green of field,
a promise hemmed by distant sway of trees
that shiver for the suddenness
of His face.
How we halt
of such appearings,
(so many intensions that snap
like sticks upon fallow ground).
knowing only sameness and spittle.
Thick, cloddish in our mouths,
the slow speech of solitude
wiped clean of all heart's leapings.
But there is a mercy
to the blue of this sky,
A cerulean embrace that usurps the grey,
imbibes on the gall of lost sparrows,
the grip of bramble,
the bite of nettle skulking cold
in perifery of far flung shadow.
And here He'll spread His threshing cloak-
so obvious a corner sacred to clear,
at dusk upon the floor-
Soft in stillness, secretly watching
the gleaner's shadow lights and falls,
to lay her weary head at His feet...
And here He feigns a mock surprise
at the suddeness of her appearing,
and wraps His cloak round about her,
bringing her home to peace.
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