A
field lies fallow usually for one of two reasons. Either the farmer is allowing
the land some time off, or the field is experiencing some kind of neglect. Or
perhaps it’s been put to other uses, like a graveyard for a rusted automobile,
a cemetery for memories and failures. In that case, the field assumes an air of
rejection, barrenness and abandonment, like when a marriage fails.
Let
Scott Edward
Anderson tell the story of “Fallow Field:”
The
old car is there,
where
she left it,
our
by the old shed,
breeding
rust—obscured
from
the roadway by the rye grass
that
grows up all around.
To
continue reading, please see my post today at Tweetspeak
Poetry.
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