By the Roots

Upon the fallow field
Against the farmer’s reason
An insistent blade of grass
Shooting out of season

“What folly, what stupidity,”
Said the farmer with his hoe
And promptly dug a hole
Where the blade did grow

And through that winter, it remained
A dark stain unwashed by rain
Never covered by a gentle snow
Never graced by the sun’s sweet glow

An empty hole where a blade did grow

And in the spring, that farmer found
And reaped what he had sowed;
A whole field, spot and all,
Insistent, fallow