The flaxen field lies bare
straw stubble
not brown like flax seed
but golden like Rapunzel’s hair

faraway foothills feign
a languid lavender line
like ghosts thru the mist
barely there

above it all
granite-grey clouds growl
filled with sleet and hail
ready to spill and swell the swale

lightning will strike again
the valley’s only lonely tree

this scene, bleak and vast
like future, like past

some farmer rode
row by row to sow
every inch of this ground
then came ʼround, reaping, reaping

weeping, his wife
rues another winter
stirring the same stew
her empty enemy, ennui