There was nothing here before,
the pastures lay all fallow, barren,
the trees cast skeletal shadows across the
ground in the constant shaded sun.
A cold wind blew out and across
the ocean, bringing with it the
bitter scent of salt and frost.
And in time that came, too,
and buried the earth knee-deep
in lonely sorrow, in quiet
contemplation where even the birds
no longer sing.
All the water lay in frozen pools,
graced by the purest white drifts
of fallen tears. The clouds
crowded close over my dull heart,
and I saw nothing through the chill.
The stars were as cold as they looked,
hanging still in the sky.

But it springs forth now in proliferation.
The wheat and the corn has propagated, spread,
in sheathes across my dull meadow.
The moss comes up again across my mended wall,
and the song returns.
The sun glitters even through the
stream of the rain, beating against the
dry, chapped earth. The wind
is gentle and warm, and with it
comes the scent of the beans.
I stand on the rise and let it wash over me,
the melting of my own distracted heart
has brought with it a great and
streaming flow.
I pick up the pieces
that I left here behind me,
and study them for a while before
throwing them out into the water.
They are but fodder for the fishes there.