The Fallow Field

There once was a field left to lie, With no one to tend it or try. Yet under the clay Dreamed blossoms one day— If someone would bother to pry.

For soil, much like hearts, will reveal Exactly the care that they feel. Sow patience, grow trust, But neglect turns to dust— And you harvest precisely what’s real.

So walk gently where love has been still, Not barren, but waiting for will. For fields do not choose What they’re given to use— They answer the hands that till.

A farmer once scattered wild briar, Impatient for quick, tangled fire. “They’ll grow strong and fast, And hold firm,” he forecast— But soon could not walk through his mire.

For thorns do exactly as told: They flourish when left to take hold. What’s planted in haste Will not soften with grace— And the harvest is sharp to behold.

Another, seeing chaos and thorn, Declared, “By the flame be reborn!” He kindled a blaze, Set the whole field aflame— But the wind carried seeds ever more.

For fire, when wielded in spite, May banish the dark for a night, Yet anger’s hot breath Scatters life out of death, And briars returned twice as bright.

At last came a soul with no claim, No hurry, no wish to tame. They knelt in the dirt, Unafraid of the hurt, And listened before they made change.

No fire, no blade, no command— Just seasons of patient, bare hand. They loosened the ground, Turned each root they found, And let trust, like rain, soak the land.

In time, where the worst thickets grew, Small green things dared to push through. Not forced into bloom, Not rushed from their room— But rising because they were true.

And when all the old thorns were undone, Not conquered—but lifted, one by one, The soil, long denied, Breathed deep from inside, And remembered the warmth of the sun.

So the farmer brought nothing but care— No grand seeds, no promise laid bare. Just room to begin, And light to come in, And the courage for roots to risk there.

Then slowly, as seasons compose, Where briar once tightened its rows, New canes reached for sky, Unarmed, growing high— And the wild field unfolded to rose.

Yet gardens are never once made, Nor kept by a single kind aid. For roses, though fair, Still ask for repair— Forgetting invites back the shade.

So the farmer walks there every day, Not to force it, but simply to stay. To water, to see, What is… and will be, And guide what might wander astray.

For love is no harvest you keep, But a living, awakening deep. Tend gently, attend— It begins, and begins, In the care that you choose it to keep.