how better

now every field lies ruinate or fallow
we ask ourselves just why we had to try
with not a cloud in the chastising sky
to hope for just one more chance to wallow
in the rain pond hidden in the hollow
unseen by any of the passers-by
still innocent of hand or skin or eye
that future like pond will be quite shallow
a more practical turn we'd never take
to count ourselves among the very lucky
who reach in early life their proper field
still from our memories we cannot shake
our thoughts about that place so wet and mucky
and in due time we've found a finer yield