Second Sowing

For whom
The milk ungiven in the breast
when the child is gone?

For whom
the love locked up in the heart
that is left alone?

The golden yield
split sod once, overflowed an august field,
threshed out in pain upon september’s floor,
now hoarded high in barns, a sterile store.

Break down the bolted door;
rip open, spread and pour
the grain upon the barren ground
whenever crack in clod is found.

There is no harvest for the heart alone;
the seed of love must be
eternally
resown.




- Anne Morrow Lindbergh
after her baby’s tragic murder

If anyone knows any reason why
I am not permitted to post this beautiful,
anguished and lovely poem here, please let
me know and I will remove it
immediately.