A PRAYER FORCODY LIFE ROBERTSON Through my field I walk, into the gloaming. I walk to rest; I walk to fulfill, the sum of life; Roaming I bleed into each managed row And still I roam, even though The gods of art do loom across the loam, Sowing the living quilt; That I walk on, they deign to measure my merit and my guilt; My life, my work, Too often orotund and dour, Is saved, saved by the grace of a single gracile flower. At the end of roving, a privileged glimpse: at the edge of a new horizon, A familiar flower does like orison, Rise from this body, No longer moribund, but fecund.
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