The Flowers of the Fields
The grey parched fields of summer tan
Turn into autumn's hay by heap and bale.
Dead winter ground follows; dry sticks, bare oaks.
And solemn skies dusty blue, parched and pale.
Then comes the resurrection of the spring,
A rush of blinding color spreads across the plains,
Covering the detritus of the long dry seasons,
Spurred on by April gully washers and May's little rains.
© 2019 by Tom King
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