In hollow fields

melancholy breeds art. art breeds joy. joy destroys melancholy.

sometimes i see myself as a field,
fallow, hollow, haunted, and still.
and i lay in the soil
and attempt to make peace with the worms.
sometimes stumbling in thick...
quick to turn aplomb, the field, the soul...
fallow and die,
fallow and die....
for the spring shall seem the sun.

smoke, carried cloudward,
october's settled scorn.