Faintest Sheen
In the middle of May in Wisconsin
I see the faintest sheen of green
in rows of plowed dark fields.
What grows, what grows?
Will this field be full
of giant stalks of corn?
Will it be peas, or pasture for milkcows?
All of us begin
as barely anything,
each being starts as faintest sheen,
In the season of emerging,
ask yourself, as if you never have before:
what is it, that I cultivate?
What shall I decide to be?
©Susa Silvermarie 2025
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