The beauty of a summer field, 
Has gone somewhere to languish...
In unseen remote hideaway,
Devoid of pain and anguish.
 
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
 
 

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