A FIELD IN JANUARY

Old plank fence, Empty gateway. Not even a path In the winter grass Revealing recent passage. Once fertile fields Now bounteous with Goldenrod and Cedar, Queen Anne’s lace, Honeysuckle, red haw. Under your boots, Weed-covered earth Still bears shallows rows, Disintegrating scars From long-gone plows. You have to ask yourself, Why? What happened here? What caused this abandonment? Finances? Sickness? A bad marriage? A life as fallow as this field? Only questions remain… Plus a field of weeds, A rotting wooden fence, Deserted gateposts, And ghost lines in the earth.