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Field of Myself

I won a national award for this poem, but it's a bit of a farce. I wrote it in 1995.

My heart is like a barren field,
With weeds and flowers both.
Emotions run without great yield,
Slowed by bursts of growth.

A tree grows in the center,
Blooming every spring.
Its limbs volunteer shelter,
Its leaves a separate being.

It is dead in wintertime,
When frost bites at its soul.
It sighs and moans oftentime,
And cries with no control.

Summer brings much happiness,
When warmth shines on its head.
The feelings will soon regress,
Replaced with gloom instead.

Autumn comes but much too soon,
The tree is not prepared.
Leaves become brown, orange, and red,
Its vision is impaired.

The tree is not the only thing,
That lives in my meadow.
A dove rules in this domain as king,
Whose servants are not known.

This winged felon flies in the sky,
Free and constrained like life.
It sings a sweet song lullaby,
Joyous yet full of strife.

It's happiest in early morn,
Before the dew has died.
It glides about as if to warn,
Of the oncoming tide.

Midday brings a time of rest,
To the white-winged creature.
It sleeps through noon with great unrest,
Sweet dreams it does prefer.

At dusk the sun sets on its day,
Calling it an end.
The dove whispers its great dismay,
Unable to pretend.

Black night arrives with solemn bliss,
The dove sleeps once again.
The warmth of day is in remiss,
Achieving peace with men.

A flower calls my field his home,
Along with tree and dove.
He grows quietly, all alone,
Beneath the sky above.

When the tears fall from the sky,
The flower is joyous.
The sadness that is rain is shy,
Expressed with grand disgust.

The gorgeous days are far between,
And do not last that long.
Through all the days that it has seen,
It loves sweet weather's song.

Overcast days are met with grief,
For the departed sun.
A ray of hope met with belief,
Is all that can be spun.

Frigid days warm the flower's heart,
Its end is coming soon.
It will from this world soon depart,
From hate, it's not immune.

All exist in this field of mine,
They aren't true or controlled.
I walk along the well-drawn line,
That sep'rates young from old.

Thus all have viewed my heart laid bare,
Displayed in grand fashion.
That suffering is everywhere,
The war cannot be won.