Hostility to Order

Today the sun’s eye
curls green leaves,
stares me down, earth
under my steps cracks
in dry protest. What?
A conspiracy? I am no
outcast, leper, pariah
knocking at the gates.
I own my homestead and
work it to impose discipline,
straight rows, weedless fields.
I take my stand here and now
to ripen seeds into harvest.
I do not cringe from the sun’s
glare nor earth’s apostasy.
But the still room’s empty
doorway, the loneliness
(after you left on your long journey)
persuades me again of the hostility
to order in my world.