By Robert Crawford

By August I noticed the lack of care,
And now in September I feel the despair;
The rusting tools, the vanished rows,
Reveal an all too brief affair.

The hopeful beginning has come to a close
As a meeting place for sinister crows
And devious weeds planning for when
They’ll make this a plot where anything goes.

What kind of errant husbandman
Would let it fall to field again?
I think I know, I’ve met a few:
A fine egalitarian—

The type of man, a touch askew,
Who holds the universal view,
“To everything, a heart be true,”
But saves desertion just for you.


© 2001; originally printed in Troubadour: Best of

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