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?