Has my field long been fallow?
Did I neglect to tend?
Is it from my poor oversight
that I cannot mend?

The loneliness does scare me not.
And silence is a friend.
But, how barren has my field become?
And will it yield again?

Could it be as you say?
That this too is a sin?
And that fallow to barren,
is a slap to the skin?

But am I just a field to keep?
A task which to attend?
Or is the way of gentleness
too gentle to begin?

Shall fallow become barren?
Are farmers all within?
Do they know of filling rows,
and of harvests too thin?

What shall I say to those I feed?
Put your chin up and grin?
But if the field is barren,
how shall I sate my kin?

Is there a wolf among us?
Is he under sheepskin?
And if I do see him,
will it be to my chagrin?

The question I am posing?
To be posed from herein:
Has my field long been fallow,
And will it yield again?