EPSON DSC Picture
It could no longer produce,
The crop required of its soil.
The field was left to fend for itself
Left – To creation’s care.
It held no value,
For those who believed they knew,
The purpose for what the field was intended.
Creation’s care appeared haphazard,
Planned out of chaos,
And, the result seemed worthless.
Worthless weeds, choking plants,
Thorny bristles repelling intruders.
It’s deeply furrowed landscape,
By the storms with their floods of rain,
By the wind with its dusty blast.
From it’s mess of weeds and thorns
A fledgling took flight,
From its home where each year,
New life would come.
Creation’s plan in place again,
Time to rest,
Life continues in the way it was always intended.