The Gleaners

Here's another poem I wrote this last fall semester. It's based on the painting "The Gleaners" by Jean-François Millet.

The Gleaners

Did Millet know?

Did he know what he had painted?

Of course, he knew,

though all others criticized. They,

the criticizers, knew not what he had painted,

what he meant by each and every brushstroke, each

careful swoosh of each

forkful thrown high to land with a soft

gurgle of water over pebbles.

"Revolution!"

they cried. "Revolution!

is his purpose!"

How sorely they missed it: how beautifully and simply and fully he made

these, the gleaners.

Yes,

they are peasants.

Yes,

they are poor,

yet see

how they live!

They

are quiet, anonymous, and humble.

Bent low, hands out-stretched, they brush their fingers along

the ground, searching to feel and feeling to search,

knowing the LORD

provides.

Millet, he knew.

Subtly mirroring

Ruth and her trust

for tomorrow's worries and sorrows,

the three gleaners work

in frozen posture, hoping

tomorrow's generations understand.