Rainfields

early sunday

mornings

the weathered farmer stands on his

front porch

and looks out at his

rain fields

that stretch beyond to the

horizons.

each day, dewey droplets spring up from their sodden,

homes

from the mossy green peat of the

earth,

forging their own paths into the

atmosphere

until they’re captured by the passing

clouds

those billowy quilts of the

valley

that snugly hug the emerald green

mountainside.

Gently the rainseed sink into the silky

canopy,

and then are carried away

to distant lands in decay.