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?