Crop Rotations Poem by Whit Leyenberger

1.
There was never anything before Spring
Eruptive life swallowing a barren continent.
A broken silence, a sudden shattering breath
heralding the infancy of conflict.



2.
Black fruit, tiny sweet corpses
diffused their too bounteous ripeness.
Her laughter flashed in the mildewed air,
spent in a season of no longer firsts.



3.
Then we learned of endings
and were confronted with growth in the shade of annihilation.
We spent our last smiles waiting for the first time,
sitting with legs dangling off the edge of the world



4.
everything is white and perfectly fresh once again,
as only the unliving can be.
An unfettered canvas yet undefiled by variation
is infinite in its potential for desperation.