| Home: Poetry: Carley Borgen: My Seasonal Field |
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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. |
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