Stubble Field

 Late December and an early snow
 has fallen on the cornfields.
 The stubble of the autumn harvest
 pierces the frozen ground; 
 once golden shafts fractured
 like brittle bones fingering the earth,
 lace gloves of snow pulled ‘round wrists
 now drained of lifeblood.
  
 Beyond lies the burgundy barn
 flaming from the pallid landscape,
 a phoenix rising from the ashes,
 the only sign of life in the skeleton
 of this barren land
 when neither warmth nor light
 begin or end our days
 yet still we rise as a regiment
 to battle with the darkness.  

~Rae Carpenter