Storms roll through leaving a path of reason,
we're forced to read.
They don't worry about consequences,
or past mistakes born before they were formed.
How little the plains and soft their sunsets,
to those who don't know.
The farmers dream of rain,
washing the fields with virgin love.
One's expanse across the land is endless.
Another's defined by boundaries set through eyes,
that thought they could see its shape.
And it grows without explanation to the moon's song,
with the tide it measures its weight.
The harvest drops the grain to the wagons standing in line,
waiting for their gift.
They will bring it to the stores for the next Spring,
when the seed meets the earth to start the story again.
An eternal rhythm that beats with Source,
over and over, year to year.
Thank you Daddy,
for the lesson learned as a farmer's daughter.
Breathing in the hardest part of the day,
next to your side, watching it rain.