A Barren Field

A barren field.

Brown.

Quiet.

Still.

Dead.

Covered in limp leaves,

Blown off stickish grey trees

Surrounding.

Blown by misty gusts

Cold

Pushing and pulling to its will

And then frisking away

Leaving

A barren field.

Brown.

Quiet.

Still.

Dead.

A morning walk leads me there.

I remember the summer breeze.

The green hues.

The vibrant life.

The warmth.

The laughter-filled picnics.

I tighten my coat.

Shiver.

Hug my own self.

I hate this

Barren field!

Brown.

Quiet.

Still.

Dead.

Nothing can happen here now.

Not in this dead place.

I stoop down abruptly and pick up a leaf

by the stem

The leaf itself hangs limp,

Like tear-soaked slop.

It drops to the ground

To join the muck.

I hold a lonely stick.

My new banner.

Feeling foolish

I thrust it from my hand.

Nothing here.

I kick at a dead stick.

Frustration boiling.

Sadness overtaking

My heart 

In this dead place.

Lost hopes.

The muck sticks to my boot.

I stomp, stomp, stomp

On the barrenness

The brownness.

The quietness.

The stillness.

The deadness.

And through my kicking,

I am covered in,

Splattered by,

All that muck.

I stop to catch my breath.

Bend down,

Hands on knees.

Open my eyes.

To see tiny shoots of green

Uncovered

By my flailings

Surrounded by the mire

The smallest little life

Strong in its resolve

The push through the

Barren.

Brown.

Quiet.

Still.

Dead.

I touch its tenderness

and

I love it.

Straightening up,

in my dirtiness,

I look to the sky

and

Smile.