The church we visited
Today for pastor's round table
Was set like the scene
Of a Grant Wood painting.

The fields were stretched 
For miles upon miles,
The view enhanced 
By gently rolling hills.

The tin-roofed-and-sided church,
Once a barn, now renovated,
Sits in the middle of a farmers field.
A treasure once hidden, now found.

In that building we discussed
The move of God across
Our nation and our state,
Building unity amongst us, 

Those who till the earth 
And spread the seed,
Waiting for God to 
Bring the increase.

For as the rain falls
Down from the sky,
It waters the earth
And causes our seed

To sprout and produce fruit.
So we must be patient now,
Being faithful farmers waiting
For the seed we've sown 

To receive the nutrition 
It needs to spring forth
And yield the harvest 
We have always desired.

(inspired by Robert Pinsky)
              
Morning sun on his face
steady motor murmur
vibrating the hose

Bluebells clamber
over the hill’s top -
nothing to remember

only the same engine noise
that keeps making the same sounds
under his head poised

and pulsing the same beat
no-one to say his name,
no need, no-one to praise him

only the engine’s voice - over
and over, running under him.

© M.L.Emmett

Somehow I manage to criticize 
The dust I see in your eye
While I am suffocating under
A pile of crushing beams.

Chipper as a wood chopper
doused with kerosene lamp oil
at the start of the chilly winter
all bundled up in a fantasy getaway
deep in the wooded forrest lies my pride all cozy-like.

Books of word in shaded writes not as other
Reading was penned. where wrote but black
Pages of nothing, words claustrophobic in tight
Proximity but never viewed on sights unseen
In either dusk or light. Gathered upon nameless
Shelves, dust gathered where words left unspoken.

Many fought the paradox of never reading these
Pages that pulsated In mystical thought.This library
Of books with neither word, but pages took the
Lives of many never a mark. But now their bones
Lie in waiting anticipation, now eyes hollow of
Needed words only grasping torn parchment.

Along she came silken gloves, garbs that cut upon
Fine curves, she walked with a look of cautious pleasure
As if  seeing but knowing what was beyond her sight.
Her only companion was a stick old yet shimmered
In a mirage of confusions light. For after she was beyond
Glares, her memory an afterimage upon others cares.

She had heard of this place of pages as dark as night,
Heeded upon thoughts of countless others who had
Pilgrimaged to this place, all faded from memories
Sight. "I wonder if a book can be read in darkness,
She sighed; and she came across this Old redwood
Door, in a redwood trunk as it stretched upon high.

Old door was neither of key or grip. She stood patiently
As rain shivered bones as night turned to day.
Thinking of how a door would be opened, Then a
Thought smiled upon her lips."Knock, Knock,
And that which was closed now let her in. The air
Smelt of old paper and the air was static and sweet.

She gathered her surroundings and where wood
Had greeted her, now there was but a view of the
Plentiful forest that stood outside. She reunited her
Thoughts of consumed panic and breathed.
Her stick she grasped and in words whispered, it
Shrunk to but a branch in griped tightly in her hand.

Noticing those that had stumbled or sneaked in this place.
Each a book or page in white closed palms, they were
Silent but told her stories of there fate. each page black
As if night had set upon them and sleep was like sinking
Sand drowning never to ever awake.

Once again words spoke upon a branch and light did  like
Firefly playing against this enlightened place. She scrolled
On pages of onyx black and where once a void of nothing
Her light gained access to the darkest palace and words
Shone in echo's of time. Bestowed on this beauty was
The key to words unspoken now glanced upon in sight.

"I will learn your words,
"Never revealing what others might,

The library now hidden, but a tree can be found in
This wood, and on certain nights fireflies dance around
It and play in moonlit fun. All the while a woman
Looks after words that heed great power. But in
The hands of light, words dance upon air into the night.

If each and every grain were a
Year,
Than every knock would be an
Episode,
So came the story that is my
Door.

And,

One – was the loudest pound,
“Authority,”
When the P.D.’d nearly warped
Hinge,
So came my first night in the
Clink.

Two, three, and four – Love, only
Love,
And one of two later;
SLAM!
Or one silent escape, fled and
Sundered.

Five – was the knock that never came.

Six – “tap, tap, tap,”
Mom,
It must have been my mom, or rather,
Obligation
And she’d swear to my sisters, “he’s
Ok.”

Seven, eight, and nine – Deliveries,
Disguise,
Pizza, Chinese, pizza and not so
Famished
Anymore; fuel for the guts, guzzle for the
Words.

Ten – came a' “gamechanger,”
Tear-smeared-mascara,
And two hands atop your
Abdomen;
I knew atop the water your freckles,
You’d never need knock again.

So if each and every grain were a
Year,
Than every knock would be an
Episode,
And this would be the story, that’d ever
Be our door.