|Home: Poetry: Carley Borgen: My Seasonal Field|
On Ostara, first day of Spring, I went to visit my field;
It stretched so wide, I could not tell which direction to yield.
I stood on a cliff, and o’er yonder, I saw the snow-speckled ground;
I turned my gaze toward the horizon, and then it seemed very profound.
The field lay before me, a deep shade of yellowish-brown;
I thought it looked so beautiful, but then I started to frown.
Next season come, and I don’t know why,
But I went to take a walk in my field ‘round the month of July.
The grass looked so green, with some flowers budding;
As I walked along, I heard a strange thudding.
Off in the distance, three rabbits were playing.
I thought to myself as tree branches were swaying.
Fall season come, and what did I do?
I went to the field; the sky stayed blue.
The leaves had been turning brown, orange, and red,
But some leaves started falling to the ground dead.
Some clouds drifted, kept turning blue-gray,
As I waited again for the month of May.
Then come winter, the season white and cold;
As I stood on the cliff, I felt quite bold.
I flung off my shoes and ran in the snow,
And all through my body I felt a huge flow.
I knew that this moment would soon come to yield,
As I stood there in my seasonal field.