Poem: Wild Fields

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I look like shit, like hay
hair dry and unbrushed,
eyelids sparkling with grease
and sensibilities are sedated.

So very lady-like
this survival, required suppression
to create the space I need
to work my way
to take back the farm
the vines and trees
and all the fruit I will bear.

My crops, untended by men,
but pillaged
wailing soil, empty, gasping.

The vines are rampant and rampart,
but lush and green and buzzing.

The evening brings
solemn winds whispering through
wheat chaffs, brown and crisp
and tangled, wild,
chaotic yet so right, so serene.

I have grown over,
savage and virgin,
and amazing.

June 16, 2006

Photo Credit: A Holmes (CC-BY-SA-2.0) via Wikimedia Commons