A trewe swinkere and a good was he,
Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee
-Chaucer’s Prologue
See the plowman walking home from the fields.
He plods along with the pace of centuries.
There is no haste, for time hardly exists,
Only the seasons, rolling like cosmic tides.
And in his hand, ten knots along a cord
To count each Ave as it passes his lips,
And through his heart and hopes and gratitude,
His soul secure along the links of being.
See the plowman dreaming home from the fields,
His feet upon the earth, his head among the stars.