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.

All copyrights are acknowledged and those remain the property of the owners. Also these pages contain my opinions (unless otherwise specified), and thus, does not reflect the beliefs of others. The Garden of the Black Rose and its related pages are copyrighted (c)1998 by Ivy McKnight .