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Fallow fields lay as though an earthen quilt-work,
From the tractor that methodically did till;
Drew mighty steel tines like fingers rake through hair,
To yield a smoothened surface so soft.
Row upon row lie quietly upon the morn,
Awaits the seed of a new spring's day,
To nurture green shoots that reach for the sun.
That yields golden corn, sweet to the taste.
A quilt of dark earth to stretch to the edges,
Of the horizon and my imagination.
Fallowed fields do blanket the land,
Geometric artworks of the earth.
Dirt road does slice through the quilt,
As though a rough thread, loosened on a seam.
Patchwork unto itself, its crossing,
Leaves fallowed fields undisturbed.
Dark earth in spring, row after row,
Green shoots stand tall in the summers heat.
Golden waves undulating in a soft autumn breeze,
Frozen white blankets lie still, waiting patiently for fallow fields
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