I find myself looking out my back door
At the mustard plants that have taken over
Seedlings everywhere
I find myself on my hands and knees
Looking for a coin that must have rolled
Under this dresser
I find myself lying beside the road
Aching and bleeding and watching
People pass by on the other side
I find myself looking out over my wheat field
But really seeing only
The weeds
I find myself working in my father's field
Thinking of my younger brother
Having a grand old time in a faraway city
I find myself caught in a thicket of brambles
Afraid to move, afraid to bleat
Straining to hear the shepherd's footsteps
I find myself digging a hole in my backyard
To bury what my money-hungry master wants me to invest
I shall not participate
I find myself panicking as the flame gutters and dies
Realizing that the flask of oil is empty
And all the stores are closed
I find myself eyeing the slop in the trough
While the growling of my stomach
Grows ever louder
I find myself on the broad shoulders of the shepherd
Leaning against his neck, hearing his breath
On our way home
