I pour myself out
becoming a water to drench this land
and the fields beyond.
My words dig--
tilling the soil, the moments,
uprooting what threatens the growth,
bestowing the change
to the fields beyond.
Autumn will tinge the world
I once viewed as green and new.
But as the green grows
in a familiarity tainted by ennui,
we hold our breath against the cold
promise of harvest
and wish to grow, as well.
October is for waiting.
As a foreigner transplanted in this flatland,
I ponder any small, crucial detail
I've forgotten
and wait for our joy
to grow
gold.
Title needs help. I had "the fields beyond" added in a couple of different lines, but that seemed too contrived. Any lines feel unnatural/confusing?