by Ashlyn McKayla Ohm
You call
Across the winter wheat, to where I stand
And weep for green to wake the sleeping earth.
Not every land is Lazarus, You say. The yield
Is harvested, the story gone to seed.
Help me turn my face from faded fields,
Find the fallow land, and plant my why—
Within Your seed-shaped scars, I see the sky.
Ashlyn McKayla Ohm finds her writing calling where her heart for God and her love for His creation intersect. Born and raised in rural Arkansas on the shoulders of the Ouachita Mountains, she's most at home where the streetlights die and the pavement ends. You can find more about Ashlyn and her other works at ashlynmckaylaohm.com