A handful of weeks ago, the fields were newly plowed.
Along their edges, trees in fresh green watched
seeds and prayers fall into the turned soil.
Beneath the circle dance of sun and stars,
sprouts rose in neat rows and put forth leaves
that marked their kind, beans in this field,
corn in that, each growing taller day by day.
And the trees, whose leaves turned emerald,
watched and whispered their praise
as the crops reached their fullness, and drying,
turned gold, and were gathered from their fields.
Now the trees turn golden too, and crimson,
and release their leaves to dance across
the empty fields, singing to them, “Well done.”