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THE FALLOW SEASON

luther allen

My heart is a hollow barn loft in the Spring. I fear there will be no replenishing.

My self is a barren field, fissured and rent,

Drained by successive crops of love, all spent, all spent. My voice is a cricket chirping in the loft, feeble and soft. How can he sing of anything?

Listen, you, is it true

That if I let some plowman sow Love again will sprout and grow? "Keep all plow-hands off your land, "Let your weeds and brambles stand “Rank and thick and hand in hand. "Let their roots mesh strand by strand, “Let them grow in silent tangle,

"In soundless struggle let them strangle,

"Let them seed and die and rot, “Binding, nourishing your plot. "Farmer, too much cultivation "Ends in barren desolation. "Forget your land, let it go.

"All things know how to grow."

So sings the cricket chirping in the loft, humble and soft.

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