Early Morning Range: A Moment of Thursday

Poetry is music, but the reverse is also true.
Listen to this, and it will make your Thursday better.
I promise.


When you are so tired you can’t sleep,
Recall the plains,
Apt-named.
Perpetual swaths of dirty earth
Lashed and beaten by rain and sun,
Flattened like worn-out laundry,
The interminable fields of century.
When you are so tired you cannot stand to sit still,
Recall the plains.
The wind reigns king,
Pushing and pulling all things to its will, deigning and decreeing.
The wheat stands and bows,
And someday you will learn.
When you are so tired you cannot hold yourself together,
Your fingers clawing at your own ribs to stay in one piece,
Recall the plains.
They are broken and still exist,
And so do you.
The wheat, endless, is not brown
But golden,
Like your hair in the sun.
The expanse of empty sky is the same in your eyes
As they stare without seeing
In this state of weariness complete.
When you are so tired you cannot give up,
Recall the plains.
The earth has given up to sky,
And thin stalks of grain, despite all, grow.
And so do you.
Lay out your burden,
Give it up.
When you are so tired you can’t feel,
Recall the plains,
Ceaseless sweep of susurrus grass.
If you look deep enough into the fields,
You will find the loveliest of flowers,
Roses wild and full of thorns that bite,
Drawing forth crimson drops from your hands and knees,
A pain you can feel.
When you are so tired you can’t sleep,
Recall the plains.
In their dead appearance they must be tired, too,
The wheat and grass and roses,
All worn.
Barren whispers curl on the tails of wind,
Cawing with the bleak voice of crows,
A keening elegy to the earth, pallid plains.
But still, within, they are alive.
And so are you.

 

Listen here:
George Winston’s “Early Morning Range”

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Early Morning Range: A Moment of Thursday

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