Soul Seasons

My soul is stippled
like the fields -
one side sewn, emerging
green, the other scorched
with ragged lines -
black strips in parallel where
sharp white birds scavenge.

And yet another middling earth,
smooth and red, pummelled, fresh-
griddied, turned over
ready for another
bursting - ready
for essence of Spring.

So poised am I, clipped
at the seams, yet too late my
fork picks over already-
harvested land, an offering
sits unsatisfied
on my  plate.
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