Poem: The Fifth Season

rows

The Fifth Season

The corn has been cut,
and the fields are rows of dry stubs,
nothing to remind you
of their green, fruit bearing life,
nothing to tell their story
of birth and storms and growth
and victory over the barren August.
Not even their corpses remain
only grave markers, dry and brown
in perfect tombstone rows.

You recognize them.
This was you once, cut off,
left to dry and die,
cut off from the roots that sustained you,
another nameless corpse,
another statistic of the unloved and lonely,
lined up with the others in perfect rows,
unnamed, discarded, left

for those not yet sucked dry,
or at least, for the promises of youth everlasting,
youth regained, or perhaps, gained for the first time.

The whys do not matter.
The cutting does not matter.
It is history now,
forgotten as surely as the summer stalks of corn.
It is history and you have left the field,
a gap in the rows,
the one that refused to line up and be counted,
but instead dug deep, discovering your roots
before they rotted altogether,
finding the magic of your own inception
and calling on the God of Second Chances
for a life that defies seasons or time or sense,

and rose again,
in winter,
improbably and improperly,
alive.

About this poem

Simply thinking over my own journey of the last decade or so.

Or it can be about corn.

Tom

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