TITLE: Winter's Bounty
By Jeanette Oestermyer
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The field lies white in the morning sun --
a cake frosted in sweet vanilla, sparkles as diamonds in its random pattern.
This scene grips my being. I have come home.
Later, a farmer drives his tractor, turns
the loam, exposes dark fertile soil.
Vibrant earthy scent rises, finds my senses,
evokes the urge to dig, plant, harvest.
Prhaps the field will yield to winter wheat,
ro ripple through cold, starry nights,
each stalk glistening in moonlight rays,
ultimately gathered into sheeves,
gleaned in spring, bearing fruit.
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