A Better Harvest

It's a senseless plow in a pointless field,
Where I plant seeds of myopic dreams.
Daily I water, so daily they grow;
Just to be killed in the first winter snow.

My work like a fine weapon I wield,
Do I dominate the fields which I glean.
And I cannot be bothered, so I'll never know,
Of a God Whom I cannot stow.

If only I didn't use them as shields,
These idols which keep lifting up me,
Perhaps in my work I'd have something to show;
A better reaping, better harvest, better sow.