For the Seasons

Hibernate

When the earth turns cold and firm, 

set down the tools that callused your hands 

that shaped your meaning in other seasons.  

Do so willingly and with reverence 

or the icy wind will take them from your grip! 

You are like the winter solstice sun rising 

later and lower in the bleak, harsh sky.

You are like a fallow field set apart for now,

recovering, regenerating, and being reconciled.

You are like a soup made of things on hand, 

hearty and simmering and more than enough.

The whole prairie is in on it, sabbath’s splendor! 

Let it shift you slowly and simply toward rest, 

modifying all your movements and motivations. 

Burrow and hunker, be found in the stillness again.

Plant

When snow melt runs from high ground into streams, 

step out on the prairie and decorate your boots 

with layers of grass and mud still thawing.

Search the skies for rhythms of wind, 

the Spirit’s breath rowdy and stirring Shalom.

You are like a crocus waking from darkness, 

pushing up through dirt in search of sun. 

You are like seeds both planted and scattered, 

measured with care and sent on warming wind. 

You are like a newborn lamb bleating your arrival 

at everyone and at no one in particular. 

Run and tell the fields there is more after all, 

that the worst thing is never the last thing!

They already know this, of course, but are glad 

to hear you tell it and to watch you rise like spring.

Cultivate

When the earth is noisy with hymnsings, 

with birds on the descant and bugs who whisper

sweaty secrets into your ears, pay attention.

Their language is older and wiser 

than anything humankind will offer today. 

You are like crops green and gold, 

stretching to worship the bright summer sun.

You are like calves and chicks, convinced 

you are grown with your mother close by. 

You are like air shifting when a storm breaks, 

fierce lighting and good rain tangled together.

This season is humming with heaven’s promise. 

It plays on the wings of pollinators, divine dust 

feeding fields and flowers with everything they need 

to stay rooted and bear fruit and be changed.  

Harvest

When the fields have done all they can, 

they do not explain the tragedy or fortune 

of their yield, but simply offer what they have.

Consider the generations who bet on this land 

and borrow against her plenty year after year.

You are like geese on the move, honking 

and sure of your ancestors’ compass within.

You are like a field mouse nesting in the silo, ‘

delighting in scraps and buried in treasure.

You are like bread dough kneaded and resting,

a cadence of becoming hearty and whole. 

Receive the blessing that comes to the table 

and all the ways it weathers the world, 

every story it carries from seed to supper 

daring you to trust that plenty is still being planted.

Permissions and Use: These poems are written by Meta Herrick Carlson. They were commissioned by Shalom Hill Farm in Windom, Minnesota as part of the Prairie Spirituality Project, 2023. They are posted on the prairie trails there as a resource for movement and reflection. (Since I retain rights to these poems, you are welcome to use them in your context, too. Just credit me in print using this language.)