Round Bales

The round bales sit in frosted fields,

relics of summer, now dried and cylindrical

under a slate sky.

From the road, some think straw.

They miss the mystery at the center,

still green, still germinating,

a glorious nucleus,

a promise of pastures with hair thrown

heedlessly to the breeze.

So it is with all ordinary mysteries,

their burlap coats buttoned over tender miracles

which take refuge in the dark.

Until one with nimble fingers

unravels each layer,

picks a way through the chaff and chill.

Then the center exhales

its warm breath escaping across the earth,

its timbre taking shape in song:

What was buried is raised.

Love is lifted, death is robed.

The round bales sit as tombs.

Yet even now, their stones are being rolled away,

their life source redeemed.