fields
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Harvest is over,Crops are in, andFalls's first killing frostStirs feelings of melancholySustained by winter's cold,With its bare trees,Migration, hibernation,Wisdom of fallow fields and
The return of the rain heralds ages of growthwhere leaves left forgotten to their last ending goeth.
The return of the rain hails the heel of old firesmakes moss meet to grow on tall boreal spires.
If there came a day
Where life outran me
I would return to my
Parents home
Beaten by the world
Weathered by time
And caked in mud
I would hang my head
Fireflies dance beneath the moonlight,
Their little bulbs flashing bright.
The crickets sing their favourite song,
Encouraging me to sing along.
The smell of flowers tints the air,
The warmth, the beauty of a true masterpiece
The flow of the breeze, giving the leaves temporary wings
The rustle, as they wage waer to stay firmly on the tree
In the end a loss, and now must lay on the ground
We were once a people.
We taught together.
We fought together,
For freedom.
Our people won.
Black teachers, doctors, politicians.
The sky was the limit.
We were family.
Daddy was always there.
I am a product of the Earth, much like you.
My people blossom in the motherland, soaking in the bright sun.
Our vines weave around the rough terrain, entangling in each other
We grow in these dense fields.
