A fallow field

isn’t a dead field.

A fallow field

buries secrets

in dark, rich soul soil.

The secrets decay,

rot.

Sometimes they smell,

and the stench hurts.

A fallow field only looks dormant or dead,

just as lying in a recliner

for seven hours in one day

watching old movies

might look unproductive or dead.

All those months—

when I feared my work had deserted me,

when the phone calls and e-mails

died.

209 WOMAN WITH A VOICE

All those months—

of wondering how I could possibly fill up another fifty years.

All those months—

of waking up at the bottom of the pond,

in the muck,

eyes clogged with algae and doubt,

lungs unable to gather the oxygen I needed

to jump-start the dead battery of hope in my chest.

All those months I felt dead,

useless.

But all those months were fallow months,

I know now,

months where invisible microbes of brilliance were at work in me,

combining and recombining green ideas,

with bold red strategies,

into a rocket ship of creativity.

I thought my battery was leaking all of its power

when really I was plugged in,

recharging my solar soul,

getting ready . . .