Fresh Fields

It is late in April and the weather
has taken a turn towards the cold,
falling to freezing in the night,

and in the morning, as you pass the nearby farms,
freshly spread manure steams,
old fashioned air rising skyward, 

a fresh fog that does not hide the landscape
but enhances it with life and movement,
like an old movie, shades of black and white, its

aroma filling your nostrils with promise,
a sensation so strong it brings tears to your eyes,
as you mourn the seasons and years lost,

the time spent fertilizing your own life
in hopes of fielding a crop, fresh fruits still unrealized,
only hoped for, as in faith,

you begin again.

About the poem

At times I have to find a photograph to match the poem I have written. Other times, I pull a photograph out and write to it. This is one of those.

The picture was taken a few days ago, on Route 30, just outside Wells, Vermont.

Tom