Time lays dry in the fields <br />as a long Summer gasps <br />in choking clouds <br />of windswept polen. <br />The tall grasses <br />bow and wave goodbye <br />to this years seeds <br />as they float, then land <br />on the empty, arid spaces <br />of a new land. <br /> <br />Like unborn children <br />they are nourished <br />in natures womb. <br />The cord; their roots, <br />that feed and suck <br />on the sustinance; <br />bequithed by <br />dead ancectors, who <br />died on the crosses <br />of last years harvest.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nature-s-repetition/
