The Yoke

My back had bowed some years ago
from the burden that I bore,
The yoke upon my shoulders
was a thing I’d always worn.

I plodded slow and weary
day by day across this field
Growing less and less expectant
of its promised ripened yield.

Hopes and dreams of something more
always seemed to come to naught,
The more I dared to make a change
the tougher that things got.

One day in utter hopelessness
I collapsed upon the ground
And felt a gentle hand
lift my yoke without a sound.

He swept a hand across my brow
to see my tear-worn face
And brushed a finger cross the lines
that despair had cruelly traced.

With ginger hands he lightly set
a new yoke on my neck.
I almost cried aloud unto
this dusty field we’d trecked.

But as I stood despairing
wondering how much I could bear,
The load felt somehow...lessened...
like half of it was shared.

I cast my eyes beside me
and sure enough I saw
HE was bearing most the load
of the new plow that we’d draw.

“Come and let me show you
this new field we should turn.
The soil is rich with promise.
Just follow me and learn.

No more must you bear your load
like a burden on your breast ,
But together we’ll reap the harvest
and at sunset we will rest.”

© 1997 K.K. Pullen