Leaving his bed before dawn, before the bell
had woken the village, making his cold way
to the fields beyond the houses, clutching his bag
of seeds, his heart begins to doubt what
storms could ruin, frosts destroy, disease
blight them. Was hope of a field of corn merely
illusion? He presses on, feet firm on the
muddy path; then pauses, fearful of the
work ahead. Why risk so much when
much is so uncertain? And then the first
arc of the rising sun crests the horizon
dragging away the grey lingering night
as the great round coin of gold spins
out to the waiting sky. He moves to the
nearest furrow, laughs, feels in his bag
and hurls the first fistful into the earth.
Whether the seed springs corn seems immaterial;
the hand letting it go is all that matters,
the hour being holy, blessed by the risen sun.
The Sower
Sylvia Read