Out here in the barren countryside
I found an old, worn bible by the road in the winter sun
Its pages tattered, its binding torn
I was called to the roadside by the distant sound
of the wind blowing these old verses around
Some words were underlined in red ink
truths and lessons written long ago in ancient script
Its cover of leather half rotted away
The gold lettering, faded, obscuring the name
Of the one once gifted this holy book of prayer
Cast off now among the roadside brambles, careless-sown
This seed now to sprout among restless thorns,
which spread and choke at fragile-borne lives
A seed in search of an open furrow
For it says here this word will not return void of fruit
So, these ancient verses fly cold on the winter wind,
Flushed like a covey of quail from the grass
Beside the road in the wind and the winter sun
From its roost here among the weeds,
among the blood and sweat and toil
Out among this barren countryside eaten up with doublewides
Thoughts From The Orchard 