My soul is a fallow field,
hallowed ground,
from which once sprouted green shoots
dream seeds with roots
that reach deep, deeper
seeking sustenance
from the dark earth.
Wild growth now springs -
stem, branch and leaf.
Nature’s bandage -
weeds germinate
in the absence
of carefully tended crops.
I lie in the tall weeds
and dream;
rootless for a time.
Clouds skim past the sun
and creepers come to blanket me
tendril by tendril.
