Taking Stock

Out in the field,
empty - so empty of all
but dust, clods and dead weeds
baking in the noonday sun.
It burns down my back
and blinds my eyes

which carefully look
over all the fallow ground,
soul's desolation which I carefully note,
take stock of what I don't have,
the harvest that I'm not.
I spit into the dust

of the field not sown,
into which falls now
the precious seed
of a promise I can't keep,
made by the One who owns the sky.
So I raise my hands
and lift my eyes
in trustful worship,
giving thanks in advance
of the harvest.

Clarence Thompson's Questions:

1.  Is the poem understandable?

2.  Does it have emotional impact?

3.  How could I say the same thing using a regular metrical scheme while   keeping the emotion in the poem?