My Field Poem by Luke Bushen

I came upon a field, truly
awesome in size.
The golden grain filled the sight
of my gazing eyes.
Acre upon acre
the grain so thickly lay;
Stretching on for miles
in every which way.

The grains were ripe and ready,
They're abundance very great.
The harvest time was now at hand,
No need for me to wait.

But, instead, I stood by
and watched the harvest there
begin to rot and fade away;
How could I not care?

So priceless was the value
of the dying grain.
So precious was that crop
who's life was now in vain.
How many grains were in that field
that now have life no more?
What purpose or what task
would they have been used for?

And now my eyes behold the sight
of the dead wasteland.
The importance of that field,
too late, I understand.

Yet, still so many fields
continue to lie in wait
for someone, instead of watching,
to lend hand to they're fate.

'The harvest is plentiful,
But laborers are few.'
A watcher or a worker,
Which one are you?