Each field exhausted from
effort,
Required for hectic
pace...
The busy schedule
of spring time,
The last sprint
of summer's race.
No shelter from the
ravages,
Of storms a field
endures...
No protection for the
growing crop,
That bursts
forth and matures.
In fall the
fields are drabbest brown,
All color gone at
last...
Lay quiet and still, no
movement seen,
Awaiting winter's
blast.
A traveler will just pass on
through,
Without a second
glance...
His untrained eye fails to
take note,
Of each fields broad
expanse.
A farmer still sees beauty
there,
Counts blessings by
the yield...
No words can describe
precisely,
His love for every
field.
© 10/10/06 Loree (Mason)
O'Neil
Midi playing is:Country
Till I Die
