For a season, this, my field,
must lie fallow. Year to year,
I have seen its yield diminish,
yesterday's sweet memories
fade to sere reality.
Once I knew a vigor here,
in the fertile, fruitful soil
of my youth. What harvests grew —
truths sprang singing from that earth,
plucked fresh, savored. We devoured
summers past, the ripened days
bursting with their golden promise.
We, too, ripened in that time,
tasted of the sun, embraced
night's soft rains. The breezes whispered
subtle, honey-scented secrets,
rising as the moon and stars
slowly turned on heaven's wheel,
even as we rose and fell
toward tomorrow. All now fails
in me; our past is the dust
borne on a relentless wind.
This day has no words, no color;
I grow meager as my crops,
fitful as these dreams of you.
What was spent would be repaid —
field and man must sometime sleep,
heal and wake to bloom once more.
Soil and soul shall rest a season;
this, my field, now must lie fallow.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
This one took quite a bit of time and effort to forge. Who knows whether it was worth it?