Poem: Fall Fields

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Fall Fields

The harvesting has begun,
a season of green growth ends
and the stalks are all that are left,
dead things, left behind like soldiers on the field.
In the hills, leaves change,
become bright and die.

You breathe in the morning fog.
mystery in the air,
the great concealer, a daily season of grey and color,
all lifted by a sun you cannot see
yet.

About this poem. 

There have been times I felt like my life had come undone. Years and decades later, I realize it was just being rearranged for a new season.

The title was more fun than the poem. Double entendres are far more fun in poetry than life.

Waiting for the flowers

Tom

PS: The picture was taken in the next town over, in Rupert, VT.

2 comments

  1. I don’t have the exact words to express my thoughts when I saw and read your post. Fall fields, the smell of harvest, the pleasant weather just before winter……..you take me back to the countryside where I grew up.

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